Alone
by HazeLavender
Summary: Jack is quite the unusual girl... maybe even psychotic?... How will this affect everyone, her included... but especially Riddick? [Complete]
1. How To Start Over

Title::: Alone   
  
Author::: HazeLavendar   
  
Rating::: Overall: NC-17 for language, some mild violence, and explicit sex  
  
Category::: Gen/Het  
  
Pairing::: Riddick/Jack   
  
Summary::: I've given Jack an unusual personality (is psychotic too harsh a word?) and allowed her to run rampant . . . how is this going to affect everyone? . . . especially Riddick?   
  
Disclaimer::: Don't own anything PB related.  
  
Feedback::: Would be quite appreciated. I accept constructive criticism and even flames.  
  
Archive::: No, thank you . . . . It's already archived  
  
Notes::: 1) This disclaimer shall only appear in the first chapter. 2) The story doesn't only revolve on what happened on the planet . . . no need to worry.  
  
::: CHAPTER ONE :::  
  
My life was an illusion. My being no longer mine. People saw what they wanted and for this I was ultimately grateful. I groaned and I griped about the way it had to be, but secretly and mostly hidden from view I was satisfied. Everything was easier. I would smile or I would cry. With people, I was an echo of them. If they were bubbly and cheery, I would make flippant comments about the latest rumor floating around. If they were somber and contemplative, I would discuss the pains and sorrows of the world. It was vital that no one realized just how jaded I was. No one knew me, and I was starting to think that maybe I just didn't know myself.   
  
Early on I had realized one very haunting truth. No matter how hard it would be, how much it would hurt, or how scarring the situation would be, I would make it through and have to deal with the pain and consequences. This in itself is scary enough, but knowing that luck always shunned away from me, this self-discovered truth took an even more miserable place in my life. I've been through so much or so little depending the way you see it, but in the end the torture was all mine to bear. In my opinion and because of my emotional disability, I always saw the glass as half full . . . half full of brooding and desperation sure but still things could have been worse.   
  
I took a risk. I never took risks. For me being alive was a fucking risk. I looked up at the huge board, I stood still while people pushed me as if I was an invisible rag doll, and I madly calculated like a mathematician with a new discovery. The transporter ship- The Hunter- Gratzner. The name held a certain feeling of triumph. Hunter...I wished that if there was something I was good at that hunter would be it. I was in search of something. The journey important. I chose it. Labeling myself something simple, something that would fit my new persona, I boarded and thought of the months in cryo-sleep, where I would be in a nice, safe cocoon- inside a glass prison -- nothing getting in and nothing getting out. What I wasn't planning on was something damaging the vessel that held my imaginary protection. My last thought before slipping into a motionless aired sleep reserved for the dead was: Jack . . . a new person . . . a new beginning. 


	2. Bad Luck Doesn't Die

::: CHAPTER TWO :::  
  
I was suffocating. I thought of the numerous stories of cats stealing a child's breath at night, and I for some strange reason desperately hoped it was night. If I was going to step into an early death by hands holding my throat closed, I wanted it at least to be in congruence with the myth. The myth that in the light nothing like this can happen. My body felt small. I realized in a second's worth what people that were buried alive must have felt. Then in a shocking and deadening moment, I realized that there was air. The air filled my lungs and disappointment filled my heart. Death had not come. Now I would have to patiently wait and be bombarded by fear-inducing questions such as are there any survivors? . . . How long will I have to wait till they find me? . . . Will they find me?  
  
What seemed like eternity passed, and I heard feet shuffling. I heard strange, disembodied voices. The language was not English and this angered me. I wanted to understand, and I wanted to shout for freedom from a stupid tube that couldn't be unlocked from the inside. The hatch was lying next to my right leg. It had fallen off and there wasn't enough space to kick. Frustration was soon taking over the blood in my veins and by the time I heard clanging I was boiling. Sweat was pooling at my hair line and my thoughts had turned frivolous. I couldn't believe how many layers of clothing I had on. Was I crazy when picking out my identity? The door suddenly opened, and I rolled out on my back. Strange faces were staring down at me, and I got the distinct impression that they might take out sticks and poke me as if I was some foreign alien child. To keep from lashing out, I said the first thing that sounded neutral.   
  
"Somethin' went wrong, huh?"  
  
Relief swept over their worried faces. I still don't know what they thought I was going to do. Cry? The only time I ever cried was over my own selfish nature. Soon they ventured away from me, and I was thankful for being alone again. It was hard to be around people when they knew I was a girl, but being around people and faking being a boy was brutal, fist-clenching work.   
  
I grumbled to myself. I should have know better than thinking destiny wouldn't find me in the coldness of space. It was so typical for things to be calm and then suddenly unravel and twist around as if I was a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. Except the ball of yarn was my life, and it had the ability to wrap its red, itchy rope around my neck and squeeze. I looked around. It was hot as hell. Presences were fluttering around me. There must have been some kind of commotion somewhere. My disorientation held me still, and it became very difficult to make any type of choice. I didn't know if I should help or just flee and look for another ship. I was reluctant to do either.   
  
The scream vibrated through the broken ship. My ears perked up almost instantly. Someone was dying. I mindlessly followed the others and came to a stop when I saw a distressed tiny blond over a man that looked like a hyperventilating version of comedy. This made me pity him. Everyone should have the chance to die silently and alone, but this poor man's life was crawling away from him with a room full of strangers gawking. I almost wanted to turn my head away but sheer, morbid fascination of the rod sticking out of him kept me watching. For a moment, I thought she was going to pull it out but then she curtly ordered us to leave. I didn't want to but was forced when a government rent-a-cop came and dragged me away. Resentment started to built for him.   
  
I was alone. Actually people were milling around but inside, where it truly counted, I was alone. My heart grinned maliciously and my soul soared with contempt. It crashed down on me like a boulder. I was probably the cause for the death of more then half of the passengers and even more so for the handful of survivors, who found themselves on a non identifiable planet with three suns-stranded. It seemed life had a cruel sense of humor. My doomed luck seemed to actually be transferring to others now. 


	3. Can I Become A Killer, Please?

::: CHAPTER THREE :::  
  
The moment I saw the convicted murderer, I was smitten, which is saying a lot for me. He sat with his torso relaxed and his head down. The first word that came to mind was 'king.' He looked so peaceful for someone with their hands unfree, and I had the sneaking suspicion that if he wanted he could have easily broken through. The woman, Fry, had jumped when he lunged at her; I didn't even flinch. His eyes were cold -- staring at no one, but his face held a twinge of anxiety. He had referred to me then, or more precisely the "cute kid." After hearing the conditions for getting gleaming-steel eyes as him, I had vowed to start my collection of Menthol Kools. The word 'control' coated my lips like a sweet wine. I had nervously bitten my lower lip to taste the heavy atmosphere. For a moment, I wondered what Riddick's lips would taste like.   
  
I tried to strip away his outer shell and witness the workings of his mind, but it was difficult. My psychiatrist had said something about this. A feeling or connection that would tell me who I should imitate. Somehow I don't think the good doctor was thinking I would be getting this feeling about a man who took pleasure in fucking with people's minds and alienating himself. This alone drew me to him. The other alluring aspect was his eyes. Eyes that made me want to read books upon books about surgical eye procedures just to be able to discern the different methods of altering sight. I thought that maybe through altering sight you also change what you perceive. I was pretty sure that Riddick saw much more with his shine-job than others saw with their God-given eyes.   
  
Of course I had heard about the infamous Richard B. Riddick. My highschool was full of boys who spent hours perfecting their bodies to look like him and after school time in metal shop to make weapons they would never properly use. This had never concerned me. When I wasn't in school or lying in bed feigning sleep, I was talking to my counselor. My counselor never thought of me as troubled per say. He just thought that I was going through regular teenage stuff and that my lack of friends was due to low self-esteem. It couldn't have been further from the truth. If anything, it was my high self-reverence that kept me from socializing. I talked to a lot of people in any given day, but I made sure to sever the connection with the last sentence. The next day I would worry about it -- making a new weak link and just as quickly ending it. The only power that allowed me to do this was my ability to read people so well. I knew their woes, and I pretended to be going through the same things. I related. But what I was really doing was manipulating. Intuition and a variety of cleverness was but a frail string but enough to latch on for a while. Unfortunately, I had to care what others thought. If I didn't, surely my parents would have shoved me in some mental ward.  
  
I made petty conversation with all of the survivors, but I couldn't wait to get away for just a bit. There was something I needed to do. The moment I found some time, which shouldn't have been that difficult since all there existed was time, I awkwardly used a metal blade I had found to slowly strip my short hair off. I was careful to not cut myself, while every so often jutting my eyes around to make sure I was still alone. While performing the tedious task, my mind took me back to the source of the reason.   
  
*************  
  
"Jacqueline. Your problem is you don't want to change."  
  
I stared long and hard at the sincerely worried face of my counselor. I had the strong urge to fix his crooked black rimmed glasses and tousle his perfectly parted hair. He was wearing a stiff suit along with a tie that wasn't required. I knew what he thought of me. I snuck a look at the notes. He saw me as an intelligent young woman searching for identity and struggling with expectations. He was partially right -- I was struggling to appease everyone but not for the reason he believed. I wasn't going to those type of lengths to fit it; I was doing it for the sole purpose of avoiding questioning glares and flippant judgments.   
  
"People changing doesn't exist." I thought my argument was valid. I simply didn't believe in actual change -- just control of your unwanted tendencies. God did I ever know about control.  
  
The doctor grinned. "Ah. But you see you don't know that unless you've tried to change something."  
  
I sighed and frowned. I didn't like where this was going. "Well, what do you propose exactly?" I asked through gritted teeth.   
  
"Just a little experiment." The subtle pride in his voice made flashes of pain prickle my inner palm. I realized that I had dug my fingernails into it. He continued to shatter my calming life. "This theory has been tested by many others." He handed me a sickly colorful pamphlet with the title: You Control Who You Are. What a bunch of bullshit, I thought. My "unique" way of thinking had been with me since the beginning. I could actually trace it back to my first memories. I was around four . . . .   
  
The doctor's mellow voice cut through my analyzing thoughts.   
  
"Jackie, you should try this." He indicated to the sheet of paper I was clutching in my hand. "It's radical so I know it is something that might pique your interest. Basically it says that you should make a conscious decision of becoming someone the total opposite of you." I was about to protest, but he stopped me. "Just for a while . . . not permanently. It is just a way for you to be free of your inhibitions. If you are someone else, then you can act the way you want and then take what you learn to your "real" identity. Also another fringe benefit is learning more about the person you imitate and possibly making a new friend. And remember choose someone you like...someone you feel connected to . . . someone admirable." He smiled widely at me like a little boy opening a Christmas present.   
  
It sounded pretty logical, and I was sure it was helpful to those who needed it, but inhibitions were not my problem. I chose to sheath myself in mystery and not let anyone in the locked room. By becoming someone else, I would render myself vulnerable to ridicule and judgment from that person. That lucky person's ego would flair, and they would use my "adoring" them to their advantage. That was definitely not happening. I thanked the Doctor and promised to give it thought.   
  
************  
  
I finished shaving my head and quietly chuckled to myself. I never thought I would cave and give in to the experiment. But I knew the only way to get close to someone like Riddick was to worship him and what better form of worship than imitation? If he was God, I would definitely try to be in his image. This wasn't for me. I wasn't looking for self-understanding or getting to know myself; I just needed a particular trait to distinguish myself for Riddick, like a marking animals use to differentiate when they all look the same on the outside. I wasn't looking forward to the unwarranted stares and Riddick's smugness of having another cult follower, but I knew Riddick would see my infatuation as instant weakness and subconsciously be attracted to it. He probably saw a little girl pretending to be a boy. The truth, however, was that I was an ancient soul pretending to be a little girl pretending to be a boy. What I really had was the strong, tangible desire to break Riddick down systematically. I used this costume sham to lure him into thinking I was innocent enough for him to corrupt, which I most certainly wasn't. 


	4. In The Dark Every Fool Can See

::: CHAPTER FOUR :::  
  
The sun was not alone. It had two companions to keep it content. When one descended, the other rose. And so the cycle had continued for twenty-two years. Either by chance or design I, along with the others, crashed during a very unacceptable time -- a time when shadows could not be seen because all there existed was darkness and dusk. Lore about vampires and evil elves that banished light generated a glow inside me -- a useless aurora, that would not or could not permeate through my skin to infuse hope in others. My veins weaved together while my muscles knotted over each other. My body was outfitting itself for probable extinction. My mind, however, told it not to worry for the Grim Reaper would once again recognize the worthlessness my death brings.   
  
I ran. It was false security. The creatures could have swooped in from almost anywhere and snuffed me out. The damn critters flew. With the flitting rays of the blocked sun, I saw them. Their blackness and sharp movements. They were hunters, and as soon as I realized that, I knew I was prey. Can't have one without the other. I thanked Shazza and Riddick for indirectly keeping them off my scent. I had screamed at Shazza to stay down, knowing she wouldn't. She was stupid to think of herself as invulnerable. The night flyers chewed her body in half and the look on her face was absurd. Her mind just hadn't caught up to the fact that her body was wasted.   
  
Riddick was untroubled -- he got right up, and it reminded me of a zombie awaking from a lengthy slumber. He brushed the dirt from his hands and his outlined body walked to envisioned safety, while his spirit remained soaring with the creatures, learning their habits, and exploiting their weaknesses.   
  
The cargo hold was not protection. It was as simple as that. More like a maze used for rats in an experiment. The creatures would appear, and we would cut ourselves another escape outlet using the blowtorch, which just created another hole for the creatures to get through. It was better than being outside though.   
  
When I heard Fry's idea, I wanted to laugh. She thinks we can just waltz through their territory and make it out alive? The woman was demented. I wasn't scared, but I wasn't brave either. Her plan just didn't make sense. We could either hide or battle. And Fry believed we should do neither and just "wing" it. I desperately hoped for Riddick to not-so-gently tell her how much her plan sucked, but he didn't -- must have thought that we would all die and then he could just simply fly off the planet. Desperate times called for desperate measures.   
  
"You mean . . . tonight? With all those things still out there?"  
  
I grasped my knees and hoped that I looked pitiful enough. It was painstaking having all of them stare at me. Their wide, bug eyes and their tight lips reminded me of something I had read about the Salem Witch Trails on old Earth. Any moment, they would condemn me to a blazing death and use the need for light as an excuse. Johns sealed the deal.   
  
"Look, we gotta think about everyone now -- the kid especially. How scared is he gonna be out there?"   
  
My mind clapped. Yes, the "kid" wants some damn protection. Fry's response displeased me. She was goading Johns to act like a man and since he was such a fucking man, he almost got his balls cut off by Riddick. Riddick's quiet alliance with the pilot was suspicious and left me feeling raw . . . unprotected like ice from rain.  
  
If Riddick was in, then there was no use in arguing; we were to abandon the rational and depend on the one thing that everyone only pretends to understand -- faith.   
  
***************  
  
It was getting worse and worse. Riddick being the ever wiser revealed to everyone my status as girl. No, it was even worse. Bleeding girl. I couldn't believe I had just been downgraded to "girl that attracts monsters in the dark." He was basically saying: Here, you want someone to blame -- blame her. It was complete audacity, and I couldn't pinpoint its relevance when we were all ready a fucking mile from the cargo hold. It was insignificant information. I guess it was kismet though -- me always being the one with the handicap . . . me always surviving the tragedies. We kept going.   
  
"Don't you cry for Johns. Don't you dare."  
  
Was he fucking kidding me? I wasn't going to bawl like a baby because some guy I never knew died. I was just staring at the horizon -- trying to figure out how we even made it this far. It was ludicrous.   
  
************  
  
Everyone was running. I was jogging. My lungs felt as hard as stone. Two useless lumps of stone weighing me down and making my breath come haltingly. The blue blood streaking down my arms and bald head was comforting and cool. It contrasted nicely to the arid desert we were in. Bone-dry oxygen combined with nippy drops of inner fluid made for a heady atmosphere. The only illumination that I could concentrate on was the one inside my eyes. It was so dark that I felt that the reflecting bleakness was just the inside of my mind.   
  
Cold. No, it was colder. I looked up. Just as I did I heard booming, sardonic laughter coming from Riddick. The scent of the air was changing. My skin rose to meet the droplets, and I was momentarily stunned to see that they were clear. I dipped a finger and burst a liquid bubble forming on my arm. For a moment, I didn't understand. Then it hit me . . . my lungs filled with salt water, and I was choking. It was raining. The world around us became quiet. All that was heard was the globules of faith's enemy -- logic. Nature was winning. With each deafening splatter, we slipped further into oblivion.   
  
The orifice was blocked. I searched Fry's and Imam's face, looking for printed words in their eyes. They knew Riddick left us there to die. I felt the perverse need to drill that idea into their heads.  
  
"He's not coming back, is he?"  
  
As soon as the words left my mouth, inexplicable dull light was noticed. I was right after all . . . . Things became worse for me and then like clock work unwounded to a bitter song, allowing me more dreadful life. And as always I didn't have to play the hero. Fry did.   
  
She brought Riddick back to us, the hapless. His expression told me so much more than he would have liked. This had been the only good deed he had truly ever done. He closed the deal by pushing us all towards the skiff. I didn't appreciate all the yelling; I usually shy away from too much stimulation. But it was for everyone's benefit. Right? Riddick's first mistake was not leaving our asses on the hell planet and his second was getting separated. Fry in all her foolish holiness went back. I had expected to see both of them return or none of them. But only Riddick returned. He said she had gotten killed protecting him. That lie must have left a bitter taste in his mouth. He probably killed her, I thought. But I just shrugged it off -- there was no use for speculation.  
  
Fry died a hero? Riddick achieved freedom? Imam found God all over again? I just wanted to slit my wrists.   
  
The block on the sun was relinquishing its claim, and if we had just hid for a while longer, there would have been more bodies on the skiff to rejoice their self-achievements, real or imagined. 


	5. Infatuation With No Innocence

::: CHAPTER FIVE :::  
  
I stared out the window, at the whirlpool of vivid colored space gases combining with dull, jagged rocks. The skiff was a speck in the universe. A crumb and yet Imam prayed for the safety of the killer and me, a child cloaked in lies and deception, to land on a planet no bigger than a pebble for the universe. I liked being in space. Planet's seemed too claustrophobic for me. Constantly, I thought that one day a planet would be failed by gravity and go plunging into . . . nothing, I presumed. If that ever happened, there would be no savior or light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes I fantasized about that being my death.   
  
I was not surprised that Carolyn and all the others died. Apprehension for Imam clouded my thoughts. I half expected him to keel over from a heart attack, but I was glad to have someone to talk to. Riddick grew wary of me. It was almost like he started to realize I was more than I showcased. He never fully guessed the wickedness buried deep in me, but he felt something was disturbingly off. All for the better though because I couldn't act like little runaway Jack anymore. Sure I was a runaway but not because of some horrible trauma in my life or unbridled hate for my parents. No, nothing typical of a runaway was present at the core. I simply shed off my old life with no hesitation. Somewhere along the line, I had realized that just because they're my flesh and blood doesn't make me unconditionally love them. They tried their best with me. We got into fights but for the most part my departing must have been cold steel across their necks. They had no way of foreseeing it. I just thought that my parents were weak as humans and my life uneventful so I went in search of something else. I found Riddick.   
  
Slowly I was making the transition from my masked self to the version of Jack that I used for the people and maybe, just maybe, if Riddick was who I thought he was, I would reveal all of myself to him.   
  
He groaned in the pilots seat -- it was a sound not meant to be heard, but I, somehow, plucked it out from among the skiff's humming and Imam's clanking beads. It had vibrated though the air molecules and traveled on top of the dust swirling around the ancient skiff and landed with purpose in my ear. I thought what the right reaction should be, and I decided on sharply whipping my head towards him while plastering a fearful look on my face.   
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
Riddick's silvery gaze shadowed as he regarded me. Probably assessing if I could somehow relieve the thumping pain in his leg. He scoffed.   
  
"Does it matter?"  
  
I wondered why he thought so little of himself. But than again he might have just been very good at playing a role everyone expected him to play.   
  
I quietly got up and searched for the primitive first aid. As soon as I found it, I hid the smile and slumped my shoulders. I walked back to the ghost sitting and asked him unobtrusively to remove his pants. He didn't even hesitate, and I made a show of not letting my gaze wander. I stared intently at the gash and could feel frustration coming from Riddick that I remained unaffected by his semi-naked lower half. He craved the upper hand -- in any situation. I could understand that . . . .   
  
Vulnerability is the blush that forms when you flinch from a slap when it's really a hug.   
  
No type of work appealed to me and having to clean a bloody cut was no different. As I cleansed it, I let my hand brush against the unaffected area of his thigh. It was powerful. I made it seem like an unconscious act -- an innocent act, but inside the black bug that was me tittered on the edge anticipating a reaction from Riddick. Just as impassive as my face was, my swirling, chaotic soul was equally as joyful. The witch in me cackled. The wolf howled. And the dark angel uncoiled its wings and flew in a blinding circle of triumph.   
  
Riddick put his pants back on and didn't bother with any thank you's. Apparently, my help wasn't worthy of acknowledgment. However, I needed conversation because I had no leverage. My skills of unwrapping people's psyches like candy were useless if they didn't talk at all. Venturing boldly, I asked a question.   
  
"How many people have you killed?" Ever the hero-worshipper, wasn't I?  
  
I don't know if I expected him to actually answer, but if he didn't, I could all ready feel the hard knot of dread in my stomach. I couldn't be defeated.   
  
He stared off into space and the muscles in his face contracted giving me the illusion of deep thought. "I never counted."  
  
I adored that answer. If that answer was a drop of blood on the floor, I would have lapped it up. It meant he had killed many. His charm went up. The emotion that coursed through me was not sexual though; it was attraction nonetheless. I would have given up a lot at that moment for some decent clothes and my long dark brown hair back. Looking like a twelve year old boy was starting to have its disadvantages. My hands found each other, and I clasped them together to keep from touching Riddick. Never in my life had I such an impulse. Touch usually repelled me. I couldn't satisfy that urge though . . . at least not until I was positive I had Riddick nailed down, roped up, and turned about.   
  
Riddick was to become the embodiment of my dark fantasies, impish perceptions, and sick experiment. 


	6. Sleep With Me

::: CHAPTER SIX :::  
  
I had to force the salty drops to sliver their way down my cheeks. I don't know why I thought tears would affect the unfeeling man. Instead of receiving comfort from Riddick, I had holy Imam clucking around me like a worried mother hen. There were a lot of hugs involved, which forced me to stop crying. Opportunistic moments were dwindling, and I felt the beam under my feet shift.   
  
The skiff had made it to Verity on Sector 3 of a bluish planet made up of fifty percent water. I thought it quite ironic -- 'verity' . . . I had landed on a planet named for truth, and I was its evil twin -- distortion. Worry was hidden deep in my bones and with each passing day it became thicker -- to the point where I actually felt my bones crack and the enamel peel off of them. I had to lose Imam and gain myself one frightening escaped convict. And I had to do it fast.   
  
The only thing I had to fall back on was my status as an adolescent girl. With that in mind, I knew that my actions wouldn't be judged too harshly. I vaguely remembered a girl in my tenth grade class, who had gotten pregnant, and after sour blows to her morality and purity received pretty balloons and presents wrapped in shiny gauze, held together by bows that just reminded me of the itching yarn around my neck. If age was the only thing I could grasp, then hell I was going to milk it for all its worth.   
  
As soon as we had landed, Riddick wanted to take off. That's when I had forced myself to cry. Trickling toxins down my cheek, I believed, would crack the glass around Riddick's heart and afflict him with an emotion that while close to pity isn't quite the same -- sympathy. Riddick instead became irritated with each passing tear. He told me to stop crying and made some comment about the little match girl, who cried till she died. Neglect and forgotten bitterness was interlaced with those words. Apparently, he didn't know how to care and the only reference he could conjure up was from a fairy tale that was probably read to him as a child, not to soothe but to show the repercussions of not combating for your own survival. To me it just screamed of residual humanity. Riddick left without another word, leaving Imam and me staring at his retreating form.  
  
The story was to be that Riddick died on that planet and the only survivors were Imam and me. We were relentlessly questioned. After being on a small skiff for a whole week the last thing I needed was to click to normal mode for the police. There was no doubt though that I had the story straight. I knew word for word what Riddick had told me and my acting ability all ready honed, I was able to make the police stop suspecting foul play in less than a week. The police then helped Imam contact family and friends. Some money was sent to him until the next flight out to New Mecca, which was in six months. Six months of undiluted holy fun, I thought. If I prayed, I would have asked God to kill Imam.   
  
Imam decided that a little girl like me shouldn't be left to her own devices, as I knew he would. What he didn't know was that I could disappear faster than he could perform a good deed. Imam's downfall was his noble heart. He wouldn't allow something, anything to happen to me . . . especially after so narrowly escaping death on a planet with veins of blue blood.   
  
Riddick appeared to us not much later though. Three months later to be exact. I knew he would. He had no money, and he was too smart to commit a felony after the bounty on his head was lowered. Lowered not taken off. He met with Imam outside the hotel, and Imam had hurriedly brought him in, while I was sitting crossed leg on the bed.   
  
I was sorting out my thoughts and busying myself with mundane poses. As soon as the door opened and Riddick stepped in, I felt a change in the lifeless room. The walls dripped with condensed water, and the breeze coming through the window was too much. I walked up and shut it and then rubbing my fingers over my arms, enjoying the feel of goosebumps, I turned back to Riddick.   
  
I immediately noticed he was staring quite intently at me. This was uncomfortable. I was the one that did the analyzing. I could tell he saw something different in me. The only problem was I didn't know if all he saw was that I was no longer dressed as a boy and that I hadn't shaved my head again or the fact that on a beautiful day all I wanted to do was sit on the enormous bed and listen to the walls dripping imaginary rain. Self-consciously, I crossed my arms and grabbed my shoulders while leaning against the wall. The best way to keep my thoughts closed from him was to think of unimportant concerns. I thought about the weight I had lost, the boniness of my shoulder blades, the circles under my eyes . . . . Riddick had caught me off guard, and all I could do was stare at him, the floor, and the wall while switching between thoughts of self-pity and paranoia.   
  
That was all but a second.   
  
Imam shuffled somewhere behind Riddick, and he snapped back as if just realizing we were not alone. Imam regarded me as a precious, insignificant baby at that very moment. He explained that Riddick would be staying with us for a few days, while a "friend" of his wires him stolen money. I shrugged needing to appear indifferent. Inside though, my blood turned black and a screeching, hollow sound could be heard from within my ribcage. This sound being the proverbial demon digging its way out from the murky depths it had been pushed down in.   
  
Riddick stayed in our room, and I wasn't going to let a great opportunity pass.   
  
I "woke" from my slumber. In reality, I had never even fallen asleep. What I had done was slow my breathing as I had self-taught myself long ago. Instead of chasing fireflies and shadowboxing, I had learned to control my breathing . . . that was the kind of child I was. My muscles unclenched and my heart slowed. I had to stay that way for a good three hours. Then in the quietest of moments, I let a piercing scream escape my lips. Riddick sat up just as I let the first sound croak out. It was as if he heard it forming in my throat and was awake before it left. His head snapped to me, and I let a cloud of confusion and hysteria placate itself on my features.   
  
His voice was raspy from sleep.  
  
"Nightmare?"  
  
I vigorously nodded my head and before he could ask what the hell I was doing, I threw the rough blanket off me. The long shirt I was wearing rode up my legs and as I slid across the bed, it inched further up. My naked feet touched the carpet, and I curled my toes into it. Then using my hands, I pushed off and tumbled in a ball of awkward limbs and skinny arms into Riddick's bed and him. My elbow hit him in the stomach, and he groaned. I quickly encircled my arms around his waist and placed my head sweetly over his bare chest, right over his heart. Then using the force of momentum, I pushed him down so half of my body was lying on top of his. I shuddered as if some distant remnant from my nightmare was still attached to me. Riddick's body was tense and his arms didn't curl around me. I was anticipating small steps though. He must have known that it would be futile to detach himself from me so he allowed my breath to brush across the expanse of his chest and my tiny fingers to clutch around his sides.   
  
I made quite a show of acting scared and needing levels of protection. He must have felt pride in my trusting him. The first step of my plan was complete. I had made him feel needed and strong. For that night, I was the kite and he was the wind holding me up. He warded off the nonexistent terrors in my mind and allowed me to find comfort in not being alone. He slept and I pretended to, always sneaking glances at his face and marveling at the scent of a man; it was much different from what I thought it would be. So intoxicating . . . so freeing . . . so wearied. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't just a semblance of the truth. 


	7. Just A Friendly Rub

::: CHAPTER SEVEN :::  
  
For the past week, I spent every night in Riddick's bed. Imam found it endearing that Riddick was forced to come face to face with the most pure being in all the planets -- a child. He thought that I would aid Riddick in making the transition from callous killer to doting protector. Boy, was he ever wrong. My thoughts were impure, and I was pretty sure that even with all the willpower Riddick held in his essence that the finespun flirtations of a developing teenager were starting to sway him. In my old life, the one with earthy humans and unprofound interests, I had never fully analyzed my appearance. Now I spent hours studying my reflection, poring over imperfections, and glossing my outer and quite phony countenance.   
  
I came to the conclusion that I was coming along quite nicely. My skin was pale, almost translucent. My eyes held shimmers of emerald and they were wide, like two opulent saucers. I was slender and my hips were definitely not child bearing-they were slight but still more pronounced because of my waif-like presence. Long legs that sported a nice smooth shape and breasts that fit in the palm of my hand. My hair had started growing back in waves close to my scalp. It was short but the lusciousness of the midnight brown contrasted quite nicely with my porcelain skin and delicate eyes. My lips glistened when my pink tongue ran over them. I found Riddick liked when I did that . . . I did it often. Of course, I didn't know Riddick's type. For all I knew, he could have been into busty women with glowing tanned skin and soft brown eyes, but I wasn't of that variety. So I used what I had.  
  
By the time Riddick was to depart, I had fully ignited his curiosity in me. He hadn't felt lust, love, or affection for me . . . it was just sheer wonderment. The strangeness of my voice -- the way it changed pitch, the little veins on my neck, the nervous twitch in my leg . . . . These were what he noticed. I had put special emphasis on them. There was no chance of him turning his back on me. He was the locket around my neck and every so often I would pinch him between my fingers for comfort. If I beckoned, he came.   
  
Every chance I got, I milled around him and using much refinement fondled him. My hands had found his sinewy arms, his chiseled abdomen, and stubbly head more than once. I had touched a lot of his parts but there was still one very important area that had been neglected.   
  
He was standing near the bed of the small hotel room. He was going to be there for only a minute so I quickly assessed the situation. I saw the night table between the two beds and my chrono on it. Using a panther's grace, I moved quickly to the table and doing so I had to squeeze between Riddick, since he was also standing between the two beds. I turned my back to him and muttered an "excuse me" before placing my hands on his hips as pretext to save room and pushed myself closer to the table. I reached the table and flicked the chrono on my wrist but not before my short skirt clad ass grazed a most sensitive spot for Riddick. It was a simple gesture . . . would have gone unnoticed if it wasn't for the electricity I had been building and tending to since I first spoke to Riddick.   
  
Power exhilarated through me. I had only gently brushed him but as I did I felt the hem of my skirt rub the back of my thighs, and I knew it was enough. Riddick had inhaled when I pushed by him, and I could almost feel his throat tighten into a chord. After I set the chrono on my wrist, Riddick's voice grumbled my way.   
  
"Hope you enjoyed that."  
  
Shit! Did he know what I was doing? Shit!   
  
My face became expressionless. I turned my head towards him and saw the weighty look held in the silver of his eyes. Surprisingly though, I also felt a wetness between my legs. It made me want to roll my hips, but I curbed that sensation. I opted for naiveté instead.  
  
"Enjoyed what?"  
  
A wry grin painted his face. He didn't answer; he moved closer to me. Unaware, I took a step back and jerked to reality when my legs hit the table behind me. He came right up to my face and laid his hands on either side of my hips, clutching the tiny table. I felt entangled -- like I couldn't quite figure out which direction I would have to turn for escape. The answer was that there was no escape. I hadn't felt panic for a while so when it hit me, my face winced, and I recoiled. I cursed my fashion choice. How I allowed myself to be dressed ladylike, as Imam put it, I would never know. My game was unriddling and the answer was becoming painfully obvious: Riddick was taking back control . . . and that meant taking something that I wasn't prepared to give, yet. It was quite dejecting to know that my scheme of breaking Riddick was caving in on me instead. All I wanted was domination over a human -- my diseased life force had shrilled for it. The fall guy was never supposed to find out. I evidently misjudged Riddick's intelligence.  
  
His breath blew softly across my cheeks, and it tickled. It felt like tears. My mouth was slightly open and his eyes seemed to hungrily devour it. He licked his lips and his gaze shifted to my eyes. I felt one of his hands disconnect from the steady table. Before I knew it, I felt something white-hot on my knee. It was his hand. He gave my knee a quick squeeze and it instantly started trembling. He dragged the tips of his fingers higher up my leg and around to the inside. My breathing was coming in quick gasps and his gaze never faltered from my eyes. It was like his hand was not connected to his mind at all . . . he could molest and regard me at the same time. One of my hands weakly pushed against his chest while the other clinched the table forcefully. To show my hand had no power, he shuffled closer to me and my wrist bent back from the lessening of space. His wandering hand stopped right before my skirt was to ride up. He swallowed and licked his lips. I almost moaned. His other hand left the table too and nuzzled my neck. His thumb ran the length of the side, and he must have realized my pulse was pounding.   
  
He backed off.   
  
He. Just. Backed. Off.   
  
It hit me like a tidal wave. The game was still on. He still had qualms about fucking a sixteen year old. This information was desperation to me. I fed on it, and it fueled me. He still had morals for me to break . . . and break them I would. By the end, I vowed to have him so confounded that he would reject humanity and crawl in a crevice reserved for the most damnable of people . . . people like me. I guess I just didn't want to be alone? 


	8. I'm Everything, Anything, And Nothing

::: CHAPTER EIGHT :::  
  
What was wrong with me? I tried to figure out the reason for my latching unto a stranger. It wasn't sex. It wasn't loneliness. It wasn't the need for a father figure. I knew what it was. I couldn't admit it. For once in my life, I didn't wish for Death to visit my tomb. Through his angst, I had found solitude. I could never imagine finding a creature more twisted and ragged than I and then behold a sinner came into view. I realized that it could have been anyone. It just happened to be someone who wouldn't give a second thought to killing me. Finally, I didn't want Death and still it found me. And still I knew death was too good for me. Whatever I had done, whatever negative karma I had gained was irrelevant -- Death didn't seem to want to scoop me up in its arms . . . it rather watched and reveled in my misery.   
  
This gave me a false sense of immortality. And that is why I had decided to turn my back on goodness. I was a destroyer not a creator. Everything I touched wilted and burned. So why not use this devilish gift? No other talent . . . no other chance. All I wanted was a little control. Preordained destiny, I believed, was very much true, which boggled my mind. Because even though I played these mind-games with Riddick, they were still played to the tune of someone else. So by default that stripped away control rather than endowing me with it. I craved attention . . . . I acted like I didn't care for it but if someone acknowledged me, I felt supreme. And the funny thing is it didn't matter who agreed with me . . . . I had standards but when it came to followers, I would accept anyone.  
  
If existentialism stresses individual right, than my form of it was even darker and more extreme. With no "right" or "wrong" or "good" or "bad" to guide me, I was free to set my own boundaries. The only problem was that I set absolutely no limits. I didn't believe in them. Choices were choices . . . No one choice was better than the next. The reverse of existentialism was freeing . . . . Instead of living a moral life because of a cold and impersonal universe, I embraced my amoral ways. I was outside the sphere of norm and as senseless as a rainbow in the midst of a storm. Life was anguish and the way I saw it a mixed bag of absurdity and disturbing coincidences. The only way for me to feel whole was to reject all things that tried to define me. The challenge, however, was that everything was able to define and in my despair I alienated myself, thus pushing myself to hover over the edge of an abyss. The causality was love. Love was supposed to make people selfless and equal, but it didn't achieve that in me. Instead, any potential love was poisoned by hostility and doubts. One in love does not adhere to their "other" seeking additional essences. However, how can you spiritually and physically combine two souls forever? Forever was just another word for a never-ending circle that eventually transcends into nothingness.   
  
I was a twisted child. Perspectives warped, opinions challenged, and feelings burdened. The fact that Riddick was a murderer helped to convince me that I could take out frustrations on him. Which blinded me even more because I did not believe in 'good' or 'evil' . . . just existence . . . just a role you have to play. It wasn't Riddick's fault that he was chosen for a job no one else could handle.   
  
I wanted to feel for him . . . I really did. We could have been something special. But my spirit didn't let me. It wanted to be alone . . . . It wanted to manipulate . . . . It wanted to create sadness not happiness . . . and it used my body as its tool. I couldn't help thinking that if I could just shed the past, I would be able to be someone else. That was impossible! I was who I was. I was Jack, a girl who thought too much and came to the conclusion that in the end one idea can wrap around and be the reverse, the inverse, the 'good,' the 'evil' all at the same time. Which, ultimately, meant that all that mattered was how much you worked at that one idea . . . how much self-energy you mastered to contain something. So what does it matter that I decided to contain another soul?   
  
If this is what psychosis felt like, then I must admit it was empowering; it was fanciful to lose control by controlling someone else. Whatever would happen would not affect me, I was sure. Sure it affected my physical body but my soul, the real me, would always go back to its home among the energies of the universe commanding lives. I slipped into depression and didn't try to seduce Riddick for a long time. I just didn't care anymore. Confusion seeped in from all angles, and I was trapped in my own game. I have never felt like a child but in that immeasurable amount of time, I felt tiny and lost. I was a bygone after all -- a contradiction.  
  
The saying had become true for me: The opposite of love isn't hate . . . it is indifference. 


	9. Beware: Insomnia Can Lead To Kidnap

::: CHAPTER NINE :::  
  
In three nights, I hadn't slept. Riddick was leaving soon. I heard him tell Imam that the transactions had cleared and if everything went accordingly, he could get a ship and fly out. A look of reluctance crossed Imam's solemn face. For a moment, I knew he internally questioned whether it was right to let the convicted murderer just leave. I jeered at Imam -- as if he could stop him.   
  
Insomnia was quite fulfilling in many degrees of self-torture. It made me feel light -- almost weightless. Through the fog and haze, my mind worked slower, yet the answers seemed clearer. Shapes were distorted, and when I moved my hand in front of my eyes, it had a trailing blur of color following it. Slow motion overtook my life, and I could see everything happening simultaneously. I no longer believed the people who said sleep-deprivation makes you feel incoherent and sluggish. Sometimes I felt the need to lie down and as soon as my head would touch the pillow, I was overcome with a variety of sensitivities -- the blood pumping through my body, the whirring in the back of my throat, and numb points at the tips of fingers and toes. This alone kept me awake for hours.   
  
Riddick was the only one who noticed. Said nothing but was aware. Since our encounter, I took the liberty of staying out of his way. The loss of his skin at night though was unbearable. My body shook sometimes, remembering his steady breathing and imperceptible movements of trying to inch away from me. Even his sleep self knew to be on alert.  
  
It was late afternoon, and Imam had gone out to the city's center to buy food. Riddick was reading a book in the corner, where it was darkest. I was lying on the bed with one arm slung over my eyes protecting me from the outside light that was seeping through the tiny, microscopic holes in the curtains. The ankle of my right leg was rotating in slow circles, the only sign that I was awake. My other hand was on the lower part of my stomach, moving up and down with each breath.   
  
Inhale . . . exhale . . . inhale . . . .  
  
The mix of quiet and tiredness, along with Riddick's presence rendered me helpless. I fell asleep.   
  
The dream was outlandish. I was riding in an elevator, alone. Not surprising. The elevator represented dread for me. Its ascending motion was nauseating. It wouldn't stop. The destination was the seventh floor, but it never stopped. There were only nine floors. I jabbed at the buttons, hoping the elevator wouldn't break through the roof and sail through the unsupportive air. I shut my eyes tightly and prepared for impact. It never came. The elevator came to a halt between the eighteenth and nineteenth floors, floors that didn't even exist. The metal doors opened and revealed to me embers falling from the what looked like caverns, dusty smoke swirling through the red landscape, and canyons so deep the eye was only met with darkness. This was hell -- personified. And clearly it was the only stop I could get off on.   
  
The first thing I felt were cold hands clutching my upper arms. They were my hands. My spirit must have searched for comfort in itself because of the dream, not realizing it was but a frosty reptile with ice running through its veins. The second thing I felt was Riddick hovering over the bed, looking at me. I kept my eyes closed and saw light taking over every crevice inside my eyelid. It was night, and I knew the room's lights were off but nonetheless I was forced to open my eyes in order to escape illumination.   
  
As soon as I did, Riddick grabbed my wrists, uncrossing my arms, and pulling me up on my knees -- bottom half of my legs awkwardly positioned. I sat back with Riddick still holding tightly to my wrists. For a surreal moment, I thought this was his way of comforting me.   
  
"Riddick, it's okay. It was just a nightm --"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
This was unexpected. I said the only thing that came to mind.  
  
"Where's Imam?"  
  
Riddick smirked at what I imagined to be my very apathetic face. On their own accord, my hands twisted trying to pull out from Riddick's inhuman grasp.   
  
"Calm down." His tone held no space for argument.   
  
My body relaxed, and I allowed my weight to distribute to the bed, making Riddick strain trying to hold me up. My eyes peeled the darkness away and saw a bundle on the floor near the door . . . no not a bundle . . . a suitcase. Is he going now? I thought.   
  
Suddenly Riddick let go and instantly my fingers wrapped around the bruised skin on my wrist. The chill helped.   
  
He was acting very strange -- pacing and looking at little knick-knacks scattered about. Mostly just invaluable things I had placed around deliberately trying to give the aspect of a well-adjusted teen's room. Still delirious from my short, stressful sleep, I couldn't focus on what was happening. My center directed me though.   
  
It told me to pick up the heavy cherub decoration on the night stand table. I held it in my hands, staring at the twinkling eyes surrounded by chubby, rose cheeks. It was smiling up at me, and I quickly turned it over. The bed squeaked as I stood up on it. Riddick was sweeping his arm under a drawer to retrieve something. His head and body were bent low, as I crept to the edge of the bed. Raising both arms high above my head, I was about to smash the angel unto his head.   
  
My arms came down and the swoosh of air was loud to paranoid minds, I realized too late. Riddick's right hand shot up, knocking the "weapon" from me. His left hand was still searching for something. He didn't even bother turning around.   
  
Finally, after pulling out what looked like a new shiv, he tilted his head to where I sat sulkingly on the bed hugging a pillow. Who he was trying to fool, I didn't know. My expression turned into an ugly sneer, and I bit out a sharp-edged sentence.   
  
"If you're gonna kill me, do it . . . just stop fuckin' staring."   
  
My skin was liquefying and my organs were dissolving. I was sure that my carefully built layers were disappearing and soon Riddick's gaze would be scrutinizing a pale green luna moth instead of a flesh and blood girl.   
  
Why was he staring at me like that?   
  
  
  
It was unnerving to say the least. I felt like a color cube, with all the hues scattered -- no pattern. This caused my back to arch and for the moment I was a cat -- eyes squinted and claws ready for attack. Riddick fluidly stood up. Shiv in hand, he walked towards me, and I threw the pillow aside, getting on my knees and planting my palms forcefully on the bed, as if that could keep me from flying off. My body, however, disagreed. Thinking I was about to be bled, I lunged at Riddick, going straight for the jugular -- naturally. After all, I had become a vampire by not sleeping at night. As my teeth were about to sink in, Riddick's hand grabbed a fistful of my short hair and yanked back. I fell in a heap on the floor, my top teeth scraping my tongue. Instead of his blood, I tasted mine.   
  
His booted feet stepped right up to my bare toes. He looked down at me in disgust.   
  
"What the fuck was that?"  
  
He touched his long fingers to his neck and shook his head in an amused fashion.  
  
  
  
"Did you just try to bite me?"  
  
My only response was a snarl.   
  
He squatted on his haunches and his hand went around the back of my neck, nails biting in.   
  
"I asked you a question."  
  
I just tilted my head, allowing my neck to crack in his hand. This gave me a sense of power. No way was I answering.   
  
His face lit up without a smile, and I got a panic-filled sensation that he no longer required an answer because he was ahead of the game. Some piece of information that I was missing was allowing him to loosen his grip and unfurl his brows. Before I could decipher his changing body language, he pulled me off the floor and directed me towards the door with an unfeeling shove. In other circumstances, I would have reveled in his loss of control and allowance of baser qualities. He stepped up behind me and whispered in my ear.   
  
"Don't draw any attention. You're coming with me."  
  
He is taking me with him?   
  
He opened the door, picked up the suitcase, and clutched my upper arm. It surprised me that my sick dream of going with him was actually coming true, and I didn't even have to coerce him into it.   
  
The only question that remained was why. 


	10. Next Stop: Hell?

::: CHAPTER TEN :::  
  
After initial takeoff, I unstrapped myself from both chair and confining cockpit and went to search the enormous metal ship. It was a Lunar 7 Space Model. Main deck was living quarters and ground level was maintenance. Riddick had definitely chosen a top-notch traveling vehicle. But the size of it left me feeling hollow. Too big for just two people.   
  
The main deck consisted of five major rooms, though I can't be sure due to the excessive trembling in my traitorous body. I slipped down the corridor, one hand dragging along the shiny, sterilized looking wall. First door opened to a huge bedroom . . . absolutely monstrous. The bed was old-fashioned with a cherry wood headboard. I walked up to it and the tip of my finger followed the intricate design on one of the bed's posts. Getting my bearings I kneeled down to look under the bed . . . nothing. Not even a speck of lost dust. The rest of the room was pretty bare. A desk in one corner that held numerous books, ancient ones with torn covers and newer ones with slick aluminum protection, was the only other thing that really stood out. Then a huge armoire came into view. I tentatively opened it and found myself face to face with empty space. It wasn't stocked.   
  
I turned to exit with the thought of scouring the rest of the ship.   
  
I never got to the other four rooms. I don't know if it was lack of sleep or my constantly empty stomach but there was a knocking from inside my head and my eyes closed in response. My world became darker as my body pitched forward and the last thing I heard was the sound a weightless person makes hitting the hard floor.   
  
My body felt like it was oozing chemicals and when I opened my eyes, I realized that indeed I was propped up in a white tub with semi-stale water surrounding me. Judging from my fingertips, I knew I had been in there for a long time. I experimentally wriggled my toes and swallowed the saliva that had formed as soon as I woke up. The bathroom was empty, but I knew I hadn't gotten there by myself. And the only other person on the ship was Riddick. My anger flared when I noticed that I was naked. Riddick had no right to undress me, I thought bitterly.   
  
As I heard him coming down the hall, I grabbed a towel near me and flung it into the water to cover myself. It quickly soaked up the water and instantly became saturated allowing it to cling to my body. I was just glad it wasn't a white towel; it's one thing to have a person see you naked when you're unconscious than actually talking one on one with that same person and acting like fucking Eve in the Garden. The doorknob turned, and Riddick stepped in. I took into account that he didn't knock.   
  
He didn't talk and neither did I. The only noise that was heard was the swishing of water as my ankle rotated. The rotating had become a permanent signature of mine. I couldn't take staring up at him any longer so I shifted my gaze to my hands clutching the towel. It seemed Riddick enjoyed making me feel self-conscious -- as if he knew that was my only weakness.   
  
I was the first to speak.   
  
"How come I'm in the bathtub . . . naked?"   
  
Riddick didn't reply. My whole body was itching to receive answers, and I could barely contain myself from splashing him with water . . . not in a playful manner either.   
  
He moved backwards towards the door -- nice and slow as if I was some unkempt animal ready to pounce. At the threshold he stopped, leaned to one side, and finally spoke.   
  
"Get dressed. Made you some dinner, bones." He chuckled at his own little joke as if it was the cleverest quip ever made.   
  
As soon as the door slammed shut, I stood up and walked down the hall trailing as much water as possible through the impeccable ship. I opened the remaining four doors until I discovered a room with a suitcase in it. This was apparently my room. Shuffling through the clothes, I picked out and wore baggy grayish pants that had not always been baggy on me and a loose long-sleeved black shirt. I just wasn't in the mood to be shocking Riddick. Until I knew what the game was I swore to not switch any lightbulbs on in Riddick's mind.   
  
I reached the kitchen and sat down, grateful Riddick wasn't in sight. Food was laid out, and I picked a scrawny chicken leg to nibble on. I got to thinking of my situation -- the kidnapping and reasons behind it mostly. Was it strictly to have a companion on a long journey for Riddick? Would he really be that clingy? I didn't think so. There was more and thinking freely, I knew that whatever his justification had been it didn't matter because he would be keeping me because of my reasons not his. Satisfied with my strictly mental decision, I started to eat.   
  
Just as I was swallowing the first tiny bite, Riddick made an appearance. He pulled up a chair causing it to squeak on the shiny floor and sat down across from me. Instantly my back straightened and swallowing became difficult. It seemed to me, however, that he was unaffected. He just grabbed some chicken while flipping through what looked like a coordinate map.   
  
I swallowed slowly and told myself to look like a little mouse asking a question.  
  
  
  
"So, where are we going?"  
  
Riddick didn't even bother looking up.   
  
"Zemi."  
  
This was absolutely infuriating. I could tell that he was going to be honest with me so I wasn't really prepared in asking the next question. I should have made sure there was more water than blood in my veins before this dangerous inquiry but as usual I was too busy thinking of reactions rather than actual facts.  
  
"What's in Zemi?"  
  
Riddick finally put down the map and for a second I thought I saw regret flit across his face but than again it could have just been the vacant spots inside my head that screamed for an emotion called remorse.  
  
"Slave traders." 


	11. Can I Be Your Slave Instead?

::: CHAPTER ELEVEN :::  
  
I had become a recluse inside my room -- a hermit. It was unlikely for me to see Riddick even once a week. The only time I ventured out was late at night, in the dark, to sneak food inside my dungeon. I was lucky to have a connected bathroom, or I might have had to encounter the shadow of the man that confused me so much. I really thought I had him pegged, but I was wrong. He was going to sell me to fucking slave traders, use the money to get out of dodge, and above all explicitly show how much he doesn't care about me, or at least the glazed over me he was familiar with. My bad luck was suddenly and painfully tangible once again, and I knew that not even the vastness of space was enough of a cushion between me and a million ghouls gripping for my soul, yet unharming my body.   
  
I had found ways to entertain myself -- one has to when faced with eternal solitude. Using both hands, I would run them through my hair, massaging the scalp, searching for unknown stitches that would indicate an accident of some sort. I knew it was silly, yet for hours on end I did it. The room was also quickly filling up with multicolored slips of paper. I had taken to writing down anything worthwhile. I had a variety of lists -- ranging from boring subjects -- ' What are my Weaknesses? ' to racy ones -- ' Sexual Fantasies.' The purpose of them was to methodize my scattered musings and still I didn't bother categorizing the papers; they all just fell to the floor eventually and when I would find one that interested me, it would be covered in dust. I was scared of forgetting things I had never really known in the first place.  
  
After three weeks, I was sure I had lost the little sanity I possessed. I had been alone for so long that I felt I could creep out of my skin and lay like the crawling creature that I was on the cold floor. However, the prospect of Riddick one day surprising me with an awkward visit kept me suffocated in layers of tissue, muscle, and skin. To exhibit to myself that I could be even crazier, I would walk around the ever-shrinking room with back hunched and face transforming into a vast selection of grotesque views. My arms would raise up slightly, and I would writhe my fingers as I had seen monsters do in old earth movies. This was conviction in its purest form.   
  
One day, while lazily lounging on the bed tracing my rib cage and marveling at my frailty, I had an epiphany. I came to the conclusion that I strayed from the path. The path had been so clear. It had been littered with crystal orbs glowing black and puddles that were really just pits. I had to go back to the mission -- entrapping Riddick in my amber of sorrow. My life would never be complete without the company of a hopeless parasite to call my own.   
  
I got to work. Using a brush I found on the bottom of the suitcase, I combed my slightly longer hair -- it now reached the nape of my neck -- and felt pride in its bounciness and natural waviness. I sat down on the bed and contemplated the different pieces of clothing that I had scattered on the floor below. The look I wanted was alluring, not whorey. I could never pull off whore anyway. The selection that I finally decided to go with consisted of a simple, loose black skirt that while solid color on top faded to sheer as it reached my ankles. It made me look put-together while at the same time being something I would wear curled up on the bed reading or pretending to sleep. The top was velvety and distinctly vest like. It buttoned up in the front, had a not so dangerous dip showcasing the milkiness of my neck and chest, and considering my lean figure fitted me quite snugly. The only pattern that could be seen in its deep burgundy was a wilting flower on the side with a lone petal falling. I looked in the mirror and quietly congratulated myself at finally looking my age and gender.  
  
Riddick probably thinks I'm a virgin. The thought had entered my mind only at that moment, and I actually surprised myself by not thinking of it before. The truth, however, was that I had sex before -- once. It wasn't actually even sex for me -- it was more of a getting rid of the whole virginity thing; more like a carefully planned process. When I was fifteen, I took it upon myself to convince a fellow virgin, a seventeen year old boy, to break through the coveted barrier. Needless to say it didn't take too much convincing. The necessary precautions were taken, because no matter how brazen my act was I never took chances, and I had laid there naked for a full five minutes as the eager boy -- can't even remember his name -- unskillfully unburdened me of the one thing I didn't want, when I would have sex for "real" -- my disgusting innocence. Being a virgin would just diminish me in the eyes of my true lover and make me feel inadequate, I believed so I simply and calculatingly eliminated the stress.   
  
My situation was surreal and my motives unclear, yet I supposed having sex with Riddick would constitute as real. After all he was a real person . . . entity . . . soul . . . man? Yes?  
  
Maybe I should make a list of what is real.   
  
I shook my head at the silly thought and outstretched myself on the bed waiting for midnight. At midnight, I would regain control once again and Riddick would finally realize that I was much more than a business transaction. 


	12. Is A Relationship Asking Too Much?

::: CHAPTER TWELVE :::  
  
NC-17 For Explicit Sex (You've Been Warned)  
  
Midnight came and brought with it an army of butterflies. They fluttered their wings on my skin, nipped from my insides trying to get out, and were the most annoying bitches that ever existed. Not interested in their superficial worries, I turned off my mind and ran on only instinct. Hell, instinct was all I had -- it wasn't like I was some professional prostitute. There was the chance Riddick would just laugh at my clumsy attempts at seduction, but then I remembered the curiosity I had seen in his eyes at the hotel, and I knew he wouldn't refuse. "He can't refuse," I whined to myself like some pathetic old spinster that I would most likely become.  
  
The hallway was empty and the only light came from a crack under the cockpit's door. My bare feet glided on the cold floor, and I felt like an unwelcome ghost. Some residue of life that had come to haunt, a faded painting adorning a bright wall. It was sad and made me see the static that angers an otherwise silent room.  
  
  
  
I had to guess where Riddick was. If he was like me, he would be awake and aware. I checked the cockpit first. Bingo. Exhalation was not too strong of a word to use for what I felt. The chair he was sitting in was slightly tipped back and his whole body seemed relaxed like he was asleep, but I knew he wasn't. The back of his head fascinated me, and I didn't even realize my own head had tilted so much to the right it was almost touching my shoulder. Riddick's voice snapped it back so fast, it cracked.   
  
"What do you want?"  
  
To fuck you hard while I lick the sweat off your chest.  
  
"Nothing." I momentarily stunned myself with my crooked thoughts. It wasn't supposed to be about me, but obviously not being around people for a while had given an "oomph" to my all ready selfish nature. Great, just what I needed -- to actually have an enjoyable sexual experience . . . with Mr. Manipulated. My lips upturned into a sardonic grin. The remembrance of the task at hand gave my crippled heart a jolt.   
  
The silence was stretching into abusive and all I could do was clutch the fabric of my skirt at the hips to keep from shaking. I cursed human reactions to stress. Shaking is supposed to be reserved for during sex. Apparently I was in a very naughty mood. My thoughts always took me on a journey and unfortunately sharing most of them would probably result in capital punishment -- yes, they were that bad.  
  
  
  
I need to be bold. He'll respond to that, I thought. I walked over and stood right behind the pilot's chair. My lips were moist from all the times my tongue had skimmed them in the last five minutes. This was supposed to be a neutral situation for me. With all the seeming tragedies of my life, I had a new method of measuring how bad an occurrence was. The crash on T2 had been "neutral." Most would say bad, but I didn't lose anything. True, I didn't gain anything either so I was just nonchalant about it.   
  
Yes, being with Riddick is neutral . . . .  
  
Occupying my mind with these thoughts helped my hand move of its own accord. My hand went to his shoulder, and I slid it down his defined chest until my upper body was leaning slightly over him and my wandering hand laid splayed on his abdomen. His breathing hadn't even hitched and under my fingers I felt the steady rise and fall of his hard stomach. There was something inexplicably sexy about just sharing that closeness with Riddick and connecting with his physical warmth.   
  
"Jack, what are you doing?"  
  
I sighed next to his ear softly to indicate a ridiculousness to the posed question and abruptly removed my hand. I took my time circling the chair and stood in front of Riddick between his legs. He had that incurable smirk on his face but it was nothing compared to my grave face that dared to look him dead in the eyes. I guessed at what he was thinking and it was actually easy because my whole life had revolved around weighing how far I could go. A simple gesture -- a twitch of the lips or a smile one hides behind told me so much more than any words could. Riddick was obviously pleased with himself at attracting yet another helpless girl into his web of masculinity. Ah yes, that twinkle in his mercury eyes whispered what I needed to know -- Riddick thought that I was just another hapless victim falling for his murderous charm. If only it was that easy.   
  
He wanted me to play the part, and I did. I placed my hands hesitantly on his shoulders and leaned close, taking into account the atmosphere change as I neared his lips.   
  
"Riddick, tell me about your first kiss . . . ."  
  
The smile on Riddick's face faltered a bit and it seemed his lips became thinner.  
  
  
  
"Don't remember."  
  
My hands moved from his shoulders to the back of his neck, and I casually pressed my chest into his. This was a wholly uncomfortable position, but I did it in order to keep an aura of awkwardness about me. His hands moved to my sides to help hold me up, and I was amazed how they could wrap almost completely around me. I felt my ribcage shift between his fingers so I delicately raised one leg and positioned it on the other side of his knee -- I sat down. My long skirt strained against my upper thighs, and I could only imagine what an interesting picture we made.   
  
"Well, how about I press my lips against yours and you show me what a kiss should be like?" I ventured quietly and with wide eyes.   
  
Riddick chuckled at this, and I just continued to stare.  
  
"I don't know anything about kisses, kid." He grinned at me. And I believed that statement. He probably knew about cutting veins at the just the right angle so they don't bleed and driving shivs in the soft parts of the flesh but nothing about slow, trembling, sensuous kisses. The kind that start at the lips but end with your whole body shivering from delight and your knees knocking against each other from the excitement. No, he didn't know of those. Neither did I.  
  
Being so close to Riddick was torture because I knew I didn't belong. If my place had always been his lap, it would've been natural but sadly my whole presence so close to his strong, independent one was just deviant and strange. That was what caused the nervousness and heightened arousal. The wetness between my legs became acute and the prohibited seductions I was trying to commit on an actual man turned my skin feverishly hot. I did the one thing my body was trying to discourage me from -- I kissed Riddick.  
  
It wasn't even a well planned kiss. My tongue touched his mouth before my lips did. My breathing was so heavy that little sighs escaped into his mouth as he opened it to invite my exploration. When he moved his hands from my waist to behind my head, I was all ready frenzied and running my tongue inside his soft mouth and cooing against him. His tongue was much more precise and experienced. It lapped against my tongue and teased my upper lip every time it flicked against it. Unfortunately, he pulled away first, and I swore that I could hear a little whimper escape me as he just casually sat back, his hands releasing me.   
  
"Jack, that was cute but not nearly enough," he told me, running his knuckles down my arm. I wanted to smack that smugness off his face but instead I rotated my hips and rubbed myself against his thigh. His hands stopped my movement, and he gently clicked his tongue at me. "Jack, Jack what are you doing?" he asked, chuckling slightly.  
  
Trying to satisfy myself on you asshole. That was what I should have said but instead I just grabbed his neck and hoisted myself right next to his ear. "Riddick, please."  
  
"Please what?" A grin played on his lips.   
  
How can I put this? I wet my lips. "Where's your room?" I let my gaze finally fall on him and his intent silver eyes almost made me disconnect him from the unfeeling, manipulating man. His stare almost made me feel shame for my inquiry. But everything was only "almost" because he deftly lifted me up and not taking his eyes off me walked towards his room. One hand was on my back, and it felt soft because of the material of my shirt. The bed I had seen earlier suddenly looked ominous. And being laid on top of it didn't help with the butterflies that had moved up from my stomach and were now attacking my heart, making it beat fast. My legs hung off the side, and I didn't dare fix myself differently. Riddick knew how he wanted me; who was I to decide different?   
  
He knelt in front of me, and I propped myself up on my elbows to watch him. His hands quickly removed my skirt and the white hot heat from his hands first caressed my hips before moving down my thighs, kneading and becoming bolder. I laid back down and unbuttoned my shirt and it all seemed painfully slow. I discarded it to the floor and slightly sat up again to watch Riddick, who was now staring at my black underwear and avoiding my bare chest. His hands spread my legs as his head dipped to kiss my inner thigh.   
  
I didn't think it was possible but his mouth was hotter than his hands. He must have been wary of my would be reaction because he pushed roughly down on both my knees, opening me up even more. He made sure that it was a secure position before lowering his head back down and tracing his tongue on the silky material of my underwear. His tongue made little circles that left me feeling weak. My head fell back, and it was frustrating not being able to thrust up from the hips. I heard him chuckle at my predicament so I rotated my pelvis as much as possible catching a little rub from his nose as his swift tongue pecked at where my opening would be. The situation was quickly escalating and with each tease I felt myself become more slippery -- both literally and figuratively. My positive whimpers of encouragement caused the pressure of his hands to ease up a bit, and I surged up straight into his open mouth, hearing a little moan from him before he grabbed my thighs and buried his face deep.   
  
My panties were pulled hastily down my legs and Riddick's mouth felt even more wonderful on my bare flesh. His tongue dipped teasingly every which way, and he loved to give tiny "kisses" right to my throbbing center. His probing was gentle while at the same time not experimental -- he knew what he was doing. My legs started to tremble slightly, and I felt them become numb. Then Riddick ran his hands up and down them, causing the circulation to flow again and the little prickles of feeling were amazing and just intensified what his mouth was doing to me. While he expertly navigated all these strange feelings in me, an alluring thought struck me -- we were alone . . . in space and if something was to happen, there would be no one there to help me. This simple musing spawned an assembly of evil offspring.   
  
I just wanted to test the waters. How would react Riddick to a sudden change of heart? Would he take advantage of the fact that we were in space? To find out, I placed a hand on Riddick's head and abruptly told him to stop. He ignored that. My legs, that were resting in his hands, began to thrash about, and I placed a fearful tone to my voice while asking him to stop again. This time I received a tiny, wet bite to my hipbone to stop my protests before he went back to his amorous pecks on my palpitating center. Inwardly I smiled, but outwardly I made my body still, and he gave me one final almost apologetic lick before standing up.   
  
I looked up at him and saw him fluidly removing all his clothing. He had such a perfect body. All contours and muscles. It was lovely because everything about him was so hard but if I were to touch him, he would be silky and warm. His erection stood proud and when he saw me staring at it, he gave it a slow stroke for my benefit. I didn't even realize my teeth were hanging on to my bottom lip until I tasted the metallic tint. He came over to bed and laid down on the other side. I turned my body and found myself at a loss for what to do.   
  
Fortunately, Riddick directed me.   
  
"Jack, come here," he sighed.  
  
I scooted closer without actually touching him. He reached a hand out and brought my head down for a quick, reassuring kiss. Then he told me to sit still. While I obeyed that command, he sat up and bent his head to my chest, swirling his slippery tongue around my nipple without actually coming into contact with the part that begged to be touched -- the peak. He did the same to the other breast, but he rewarded my cooperation by kissing the hard nipple after the luscious swirling. He dragged his tongue from the valley of my breasts to my neck, while at the same time his fingers, using feather light pressure, stroked my bare back. The side vein on my neck received the most attention, as Riddick caressed it with his tongue and grazed it with his teeth. My hands finally moved to his chest and rubbed everywhere softly. When they reached his lower stomach, his muscles contracted under my touch and he groaned so I willed one hand to go lower and grasp his hard shaft. Trying to deal with my own arousal, while at the same time pumping my hand slowly up and down was difficult, even for someone like me, but sensing Riddick's pleasure was enough to keep me going.   
  
Riddick was getting impatient so he pushed me down on my back and got between my legs, nudging them open with his large body. His support was his own hands, planted on either side of my head. At the same time I wrapped my legs around him, I also flung my arms overhead connecting my wrists together, indicating this to Riddick. He looked startled for a second before obliging and using one of his hands to hold mine together. I tested his hold, and it was serious -- I could barely move.   
  
I felt his tip nudge me, and I faked panic. Riddick just growled and pushed roughly all the way in. My mouth opened but no scream could be heard as his lips crashed down on mine. I moaned into his mouth and his chest felt heavy on mine. There was no time for accommodation as Riddick just started rocking in and out of me, causing my wrists to strain against his hold. The pressure steadily increased and my arms felt like dead weight but this just enhanced the astounding feeling in the lower part of my body. Trying to cope with the little pangs of pain from his hold, while at the same time experiencing the alleviating arousal, was exciting and new, and it seemed Riddick knew it because every couple of seconds he would pinch my wrists and pound into me at the exact same time. The little shivers from this were indescribable, and I swore that there was an overload of sensations. The word "writhing" came to mind. However, I was the one doing most of the writhing and poor Riddick was just trying his best to hush me down with persuasive nips to my collarbone before he just gave up and roughly grabbed my hip stilling me for his powerful thrusts. I loved giving him some access and than coyly trying to sink into the bed away from him. When I did this, a rumble would be heard from his throat, and I was quickly righted with a lick to my neck or a trailing finger down my side. For the most part, he flexed my body as it suited him, and I accommodated him, as long as he thought he had control. I always knew he would be a dominant lover, just like I was -- except I did it with subtlety.  
  
His hand must have been getting tired because I wriggled out of his grasp and pulled at his neck to bring his lips to mine. He flipped our positions for a second, and I squeezed my inner muscles around his shaft. He was panting and then I was on the bottom again before I could even blink. With renewed vigor, he thrust into me, bringing my whole body off the bed. Our eyes connected for a second and the weight of what we were doing became suddenly clear and the twinge of desire went up for both of us. I arched into him and as an experiment slapped his face.   
  
He quickly grabbed my arm and twisted it above my head. With each word, he sharply propelled himself into me.   
  
"Don't ever fuckin' do that again."  
  
I just grinned sweetly up at him and squeezed my legs tighter around his waist. My whole body started to feel different and my eyes scrunched closed, my head turning sharply to the side, neck exposed. It was all happening in perfect synchronization -- Riddick's tongue lapped at a droplet of sweat on my neck, my breasts rubbed against his chest, my legs were pushed further apart, little squeaks of pleasure were leaving my throat, and Riddick growled exactly at the right moment -- when I opened my eyes and saw satisfaction etched on his face for what I, not him, was feeling. This sent me reeling again with the erotic idea of where I was and what I was doing. I experienced a quick, sudden yet quiver-inducing orgasm that also had something to do with focusing all my energy on this one spot that Riddick's cock kept brushing against and tickling. The tickle had started at one point but it eventually traveled up and down my trembling legs and hit me full force in the center of my stomach. I was absolutely pulsating from the inside out, and Riddick held on to me till the very last few remnant shudders. I knew my heat must have been Riddick's undoing because he surged up once more before I felt him shudder and fall against my body, while his hand stroked my left hip and his breath whispered past my ear.   
  
He looked down at me and he seemed peaceful . . . or just tired; I couldn't really tell. We kissed then and it wasn't a kiss given or received; it was a kiss shared. One shared between two people who had just experienced a dark secret and knew it would be pointless to tell anyone else because they wouldn't understand. I smirked just like Riddick right than because at that moment we had equaled each other. Then suddenly a shadow passed over Riddick's eyes, and he regarded me with a closed expression.   
  
"Jack, you can sleep in your own room," he informed me with no playful smirk, kicking me not only out of his bed but also our newly developed symbiosis. 


	13. Wounded And Plotting

::: CHAPTER THIRTEEN :::  
  
Riddick's ignorance of me for the past week, struck me straight in the heart. Contrary to belief, I did have a heart. And just like a vampire's it was useless and served only as a metaphorical weakness where stakes could be flung and holy water poured.   
  
I had reverted back to my room, but being in on the dreadful "secret" Riddick and I had shared made me bolder, and I even ventured out when he was about. He completely ignored me and one day I realized we were still on course for Zemi. That day was an explosion, at least in the marrow of my bones. Intense urges to hurt something surrounded me and like a shadow gave me cool comfort from the searing warmth of sunshine. Too bad there wasn't anything -- like a cat -- to kick around or pinch the furry ears of.   
  
That choking feeling came from knowing that Riddick had fucked me and there was still no pattern of change in his regard of me. To think of him patting his own back at relieving an itch while still getting away with selling another human being just made me sick. No one treated me like that. No one.  
  
I tried talking to him. Something I wasn't good at since I could never gauge what the right reactions should be, just could never conjure up enough empathy to care. But this time my "freedom" hung in the balance and while every inch of me screamed to sit back and not do anything, I brutally pushed past my spiritual sloth and went to look for Riddick.   
  
I found him in the kitchen and knew that he no longer saw me as the scared little Jack on the planet. And no it wasn't because we had sex; he probably actually started to unravel me back when we spent time together at the hotel. I had probably given so many clues to my demented nature, and I never even bothered to explain them. Sloppy me. Thinking back on that time, that seemed centuries away, he just had to have noticed my reluctance to making friends or even talking to other people, my uncanny ability to be by myself for long periods of time, and my angry grimaces directed towards Imam's babbling. I wasn't very careful in masking my conceit for others and the high regard I held for myself. Riddick, however, was sneakily quiet, allowing me security in my strange acts and him enough time to study me.   
  
I sat down casually across from Riddick and picked up an apple, slicing it slowly with a knife I found on the table. This was not the time to develop scruples so when my mouth opened to speak, guess what stumbled out.  
  
"Riddick, don't you think we should be planning the wedding now?"  
  
My little joke inquiry awarded me with a goodhearted chuckle from Riddick, that instantly lightened up the atmosphere. Placing my hands underneath my chin and wriggling my nose, I waited for him to say something too but he just kept reading and typing something on his CompX. I sighed and gingerly placed a slice of apple in my mouth. It seemed there needed to be a lot more coaxing to warrant a response from Riddick.   
  
"There was something I've been wondering about." I decided there was no use in beating around the bush so instead I opted to play dumb.   
  
A sort of slow vibrating noise left Riddick's throat to indicate I could ask my question but its mellow effect rendered me speechless for a few extra seconds.   
  
"I was just wondering about the reason you're going to Zemi." I couldn't bring myself to say "we." "Is it because you're going to sell me?" I asked, wrinkles creasing my forehead.   
  
Riddick's continuous typing slowed for a second before it fully stopped, and he looked up at my probably worried face.   
  
"What do you think is gonna happen once we reach Zemi?"  
  
He said "we" . . . interesting.  
  
"Probably gonna sell me," I said averting my gaze from him.   
  
"Good assumption." He went back to his typing.   
  
My mouth hung open slightly.   
  
"Well, what the hell, Riddick? You're just gonna sell me?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Why?"  
  
No response from Riddick.   
  
"What happened to rejoining the human race?" I needed to hit below the belt. "Selling humans into slavery is most definitely not the way to humanity."  
  
"I've thought about it, Jack. And you're not exactly human-happy, are you?"   
  
"What?" I couldn't believe what he just said to me.   
  
"You seem to hate everything about life anyway. So why not sell you and get enough money to get the fuck outta here?"  
  
I stood up, causing my chair to fall over.   
  
"Why? WHY?!" I stared wildly into his impassive face and pointed a finger accusingly at him. "Maybe 'cause you just fucked me . . . maybe 'cause you're supposed to care just a little bit 'bout me . . . or maybe, just maybe 'cause I fuckin' care about you."   
  
My arms flung into the air when my little tirade had absolutely no effect on him. "No, of course not -- Big Evil doesn't give a shit 'bout anyone 'cept himself. So if you can live with sellin' me, then go right the fuck ahead." As I walked away, I slung one last quip his way. " 'Cause I sure as hell don't care as long as I get the fuck away from you, Riddick."   
  
As soon as I was no longer in his sight, I stomped to the bathroom and locked myself in. I couldn't believe I had lost my cool. If there was one thing I had taught myself, it was the art of curbing, containing, and controlling. "Triple Doses of Vitamin C," I liked to call it. I started laughing at my own little outburst -- it had sounded so real and yet all I could think about as it happened was hurting Riddick emotionally. The whole argument was absurd, and it sounded like it came straight from someone else's mouth -- someone who had watched way too much television drama. The fact was that I hadn't even thought about my situation as much as Riddick's disregard for me. Of course what he had said was true -- I was a miserable creature, who probably didn't deserve living among normal people but who the hell was he to make that decision for me? He is no one, I desperately thought.   
  
My laughter soon turned into dry sobs intermingled with giggles because I didn't even know how to cry properly. The dry sobs wracked my tiny body and for an instant I wished Riddick was there to see my pathetic display and sweep me up in a large, comforting hug, telling me everything was all right. Disgusting thought. I pushed it away.   
  
My mind wandered back to the night I had gotten what I wanted -- sex. One would wonder how I had foreseen this as a triumph for myself -- wondered how I could see it as a victory while being beneath Riddick, pinned by him, ruled by him, penetrated by him. Well, that was the whole point . . . . It had been my doing thus my conquest over him. Many would have seen it as him being in control, but I always had command, never doubt that. By arousing such a dominating passion in him, he became a slave to a gift only I could bestow -- submissive femininity to his grunting masculinity. I had made an easy mastery by emphasizing how much power I held in my lips, my kisses, and my willing body. The whole thing was about control, darling. The thought excited me. My mind played over and over again the light of battle in Riddick's eyes when I expected him to hold my wrists together and then how my whimpering insistence won him over, and the light in his eyes faded. Oh, how I loved the disconcerting shadow that had shown in his eyes at my approval and arousal of dominance and aggression from him. Because a disconcerted man is always easier to control, my mind convinced me.   
  
It was true -- his domination over me just handed me more power . . . on a fucking platter no less. In my hands, I held the ability to confuse him just by accepting his pleasure in forcing his superiority on me. And this scared the shit out of him so it was enough for me to stay ahead of the game and be able to manipulate him. I just keep racking up the weaknesses on dear ol' Riddick, I thought gleefully.   
  
As my mind took that journey, satisfying its own dark desire and convincing itself of its supreme power, I was vaguely aware of my fingers pinching the skin of my arm. My thumb and index finger rolled the soft flesh between their grasp and my chest was still heaving with the sobs that didn't seem to want to go away. The pain soothed away the ache that was blocking my arteries and suffocating me from Riddick's flippant opinion of me. Never in my wretched life had I wanted touch and now when I craved for some sort of connection, Riddick denied me. The nicking of my nails didn't yield until my whole arm was covered in tiny purple crescent shaped moons. Pretty, I thought. Then I went to the sink and splashed cold water on them, as if that could, somehow, erase what I had done. As I turned the water off, I immediately sensed Riddick moving away from the door. He was there all along and had heard my piteous sniveling. I wondered what this meant. Did he just earn a point? 


	14. Reluctant Poison

::: CHAPTER FOURTEEN :::  
  
Poison. The word had dark, romantic vibrations. It was almost poetic -- something straight from the gloomy world of Emily Bronte. I couldn't believe the idea hadn't caress the still functioning shallow waves of my consciousness before. When it did, however, graze my armored psyche, it had snapped me back to my psychosis so fast that the world became white, stripped of color. Everything smelled of sterilization and oppression and when my hands touched my face, checking if I was still there, my skin felt immensely young and vulnerable. I didn't like that. That charade was supposed to be just for Riddick . . . . It was an illusion not a reality. My routine with Riddick had gone far enough; I couldn't continue living a lie with him and pretend that his destination wasn't my doom. With each passing star, we came closer to the personified steel bars that would restrain me for a lifetime, usually being until I reached the age of twenty-two or the slave owner tired of me. And then where would I be? I would just be a fucking shell. No, I was a shell now -- I would be a snail's crushed hull, oozing with the tiny creature's broken membrane and trailing behind the feeble thing still trying to crawl away from sure calamity. Not a pretty sight.   
  
Instinct forced me to snap from my stupor but choice guided my decisions.  
  
Riddick and I had fallen into a comfortable "relationship" after my little bathroom episode. We had not had sex again, but we had found other numerous ways to satisfy ourselves. It had never been about the naked act of intercourse, anyway; it had always been the idea of it -- the tantalizing prospect of actually finding someone to express dark eroticism to. Through our gestures and cunning dances we had entangled ourselves to a promise of never letting the other lead. For a whole week the promise hadn't been broken but now nearing Zemi, I had to shift the power once again. Quite a shame too because I was getting comfortable with the drab monotony of habit.   
  
I hate to admit it but the past week with Riddick had been possibly the best of my life. I had received all that was needed to keep me in revelry. It was absolutely beautiful. My strange abilities all had a well-fitting place when Riddick was around. Every single one of my eccentric talents had a chance to come out and play. And it was all due to Riddick's presence. I really should have thanked him if I knew how. Doesn't matter anyway -- he's such a bastard.  
  
I had taken to sleeping with him in his bed. He didn't mind so why should I? Even though by then I was convinced my flirtations would have absolutely no affect on his decision of selling me, sheer "Jack nature" kept me maneuvering his emotions and trying to provoke him into uncontrollable want for me. This want was always temporary and never intense enough to lead to us writhing in his enormous bed. This was also another point for me though because I knew Riddick held back for the sole fear of not being able to part with me when the time came. Yet, unobtrusively I continued my exaggerated animations that only caused his curiosity of me to rise.  
  
  
  
When we laid in bed together, I would snuggle close to him and pretend just for him that I was cute, innocent Jack -- someone he could protect, for my twisted mind had latched on to the fact Riddick had never been wanted in his whole life. I made him wanted. As I burrowed under the fluffy blankets and stretched like a cat, I always made sure to turn droopy eyes to him, murmur as if still half asleep, and let my bare legs graze him. I would reach out for him in my pretend dream state, and he would enfold me in his powerful arms, while his head became buried in my berry smelling hair. We were both content with this mirage. Sometimes I would whisper to him right before he was to fall asleep. But I always said disturbing things like "It doesn't matter that you're selling me, Riddick . . . really . . . I still lov --" But before I could finish, a yawn would be bestowed on me by the dream fairies and out of squinting eyes I would gauge Riddick's reaction. He never looked startled, but he never went back to sleep either.   
  
On some level, he knew I was fucking with him, but he never fought it. Must've been guilt. When we were back at the hotel, he didn't even think twice about friskily molesting me after my little "rub-tease," but here on the ship he just seemed to shrug his shoulders and allow me my games. It was like he knew it would make no difference in the big picture, but I also liked to think he enjoyed my company -- bizarre company that could rival his own. I knew, in a closed part of me, that Riddick also found pleasure with me being around. In his very nature was the demand to examine others . . . and what better subject than an aberrant little beast like me? He would certainly feel the loss if I was sold to a slave owner. The only problem was that I wouldn't be the one that would be gone.   
  
To keep him on his toes, I also liked to lounge places where he could trip over me. Once, I was on the floor outside his bedroom door, just listening to the quiet inside when the door had whooshed open and an amused, surprised Riddick looked down at me.   
  
"What are you doing down there, kid?" he had asked.  
  
  
  
I smiled up at him, crossing my hands behind my head. Spitting image of devious innocence. "Oh. Nothing. Just enjoying the view."  
  
He just gave me a hard, borderline stern look and stepped over me, carefully. Can't have him stepping on jagged glass.   
  
  
  
I swore I could hear him mutter cockily something that sounded strangely like, "Enjoy this view," as he walked away.   
  
Thinking of times like this, elated me and made me feel accepted. But the bitter truth was that we were only a week away from Zemi and this would all soon end. Sure, Riddick was acting and maybe even feeling an ambience to me but his stubborn disposition would never allow him to admit that another being could fit so well with his unique soul. So it all boiled down to him or me, and it definitely wasn't going to be me.   
  
So that's how the idea of poison had treaded through the murky water and landed gracefully on my chest. And it had not shifted until I gave it notice and approved its guileful plan. I had waited for Riddick to change his mind and heroically declare me an invaluable part of his existence and venously refuse to sell me. But that never came.   
  
See, in the dark, when we were sleeping in each others arms, there wasn't anything else in our way. There we could stop pretending -- there I knew I was filled with lunacy, and he knew he was empty enough to accept just some of that dementia and make me feel balanced. Hell, in the pitch-black Riddick even confided in me, of course he thought I was asleep but, nonetheless, I would hear his raspy voice whisper "sorry." The first time I had heard him say "my mistake," I almost cried -- real tears. But once the harsh artificial lights came on, we were once again flesh and blood -- all vulnerable tendons and veins. And Riddick would never utter those words he did in the inky black.   
  
But I knew . . . I knew . . . and that absolute truth made the decision to poison Riddick even more difficult. 


	15. Agony, Joy, And Murder

::: CHAPTER FIFTEEN :::  
  
It started as a regular day. When I woke up, I was completely on top of Riddick's chest -- my back to him -- moving up and down with his steady breathing. I had taken my time to wake him. First, I raised one arm in the air, staring at my wriggling fingers and marveling at how much power they held in their thin bones. As I gazed, my vision focused and unfocused between the space of my fingers, and I watched, fascinated, the play of shadow and light. My lips formed silent words. The words were random and each was there to show their non importance, until I pursed my lips and raised my eyebrows, mouthing "Riddick." The word remained unarticulated, until the moment I used my voiceless fingers to stroke Riddick's neck. As I did that, I also snuggled into him, willing his hands to nuzzle me back. Nestled in his arms, running my hand over his scalp, I waited for him to come fully awake and when he did, he would abruptly stop his explorations of my soft stomach or whatever part he had been caressing, and I would quickly find myself rolled to the glacial atmosphere that existed on the unoccupied side of the bed. At this I would pout and gently cross my arms over my chest. I wasn't really angry or offended, but I enjoyed to amplify the guilt between Riddick and I.   
  
Then the obligatory "talk" came. It always crept up and surprised me. In the quiet of Riddick's bedroom and the loud clamor of my mind, I never quite expected the stable tones of Riddick's voice, directed towards me. It always jarred the hard achieved equilibrium in me.   
  
The "talk" varied but the message was always the same.   
  
"Jack, you need to stop sleeping in my bed."  
  
I nibbled at my nail, grooming. "Why?" I chirped.   
  
I distinctly heard Riddick sigh, as I saw him run a hand over his head. "Because you won't change my mind."  
  
  
  
"Huh?" I knew what he was talking about but indifference always felt better on me.  
  
  
  
"About Zemi," his voice rasped.   
  
"Oh." I finally looked at him, making my eyes sparkle with emotion. "It's okay . . . I'm just enjoying the last few moments I have with you . . . and of freedom."  
  
Riddick laughed, amused at my blatant guilt manipulation. "What happened to getting away from me?" He finally looked straight at me. "Do you still want that?"  
  
Was that hurt in his voice?   
  
Hopefully.   
  
I conjured up my best catholic school girl grin and replied with, "Yes, of course," as if it was no huge revelation. I shrugged. "But I'm not stupid. If this is gonna be my last few days of liberty, I'm at least gonna enjoy it."  
  
"So, that's how it is?" Riddick ran a hand along my leg, that had somehow slipped out from under the security of the blanket. "You're just relaxing till I give you over to someone else?" He squeezed my knee.  
  
Damn those hands. I swallowed the purr that was forming deep in my throat and slowly pulled my leg back under the covers. Riddick was once again underestimating my ability to block myself off and live in my own ideals. "Yes, Riddick -- that's how it is. You want to sell me . . . fine, but don't expect me to shine with happiness."  
  
"Fine. But Jack --" He smirked at my calm face "-- next time you crawl into my bed don't expect me to warm you."  
  
He swiftly got up, giving me a great view of the muscles of his back contracting, as he walked out to make breakfast. I lazily threw a pillow somewhere in his vicinity and stretched out on the bed. Too bad Riddick has no idea what is coming his way today, I thought sadly. I knew what I was going to do was evil, but what choices did I have? I mean how did he expect me to remember fleeting emotions from long ago, when living in a strange world full of twists and turns that just ended with me being hurt in some way?   
  
I couldn't quite pinpoint why I was such a vortex of weakness in the face of challenges. Was it because I cared only for myself? Because I had such a rigid view on the way things should be done and could accept no compromise? Because I saw no one thing important enough to finish or even consider? Was it because inside I was angered by the little things and not the normal worries?   
  
What was wrong with me? Being around Riddick caused this question to pop up more often than I liked. I never wanted to kill anyone, but I had to ask myself which was worse -- selling someone to a lifetime of bondage and torment or murdering someone to escape that fate? I made my decision in a second -- it never took me long to be clear on what had to be done. I was slow in taking the hard way and by nature I was idle but when I felt the weight of time pressing on my shoulders, my whole essence awoke from its camatose state and ran on dark fuel, a gift from all my hate. Stress actually turned me on.   
  
Knowing tragedy was so close that I could feel its lips on mine, I was roused from my coffin and forced by an unseen wind to preserve myself. However, that need would not have existed if my calamity was further away. Funny thing Time was. Time, something that doesn't even subsist in reality, had such impacts on me. I could feel Time coursing through my blood, expanding my muscles, and feeding my brain. Without its vast help, I would have absolutely no motivation. There would have been no deadlines, and I would just be a shapeless orb, interacting with the other energies -- all going in the opposite direction and bogging me down. I didn't deserve Time.   
  
As my soul registered the fact that I was running out of Time, it became elevated and hopeful of Death, but when my mind registered the fact, it became frenzied and despondent . . . finding hope in the pangs of distress. Apparently, I liked self-destructing myself because with misery comes numbness. The weakness actually made me feel stronger, like no matter how bad it would get, it wouldn't matter for I was all ready intimate with many forms of affliction. It was a disease with me. And in my malady, I found amenity because I knew Destiny worked hand in hand with Time. So my fate wasn't at all up to me. Therefore, I knew in each stage I would be victorious and at the end of the . . . journey -- is that what it was? -- I would outlast all the pain because when I was complete -- no longer a work in progress -- I would be agony. Complete . . . agony. And I liked that.   
  
Agony is strong and could kick joys ass. Those were the terms I thought in.   
  
It can be compared to the peace one feels when they're falling through the air, plummeting to sure death, and then jolting back to actuality only to realize it was all a dream. Relief. Yes, that's what it was -- relief in sorrow. Flawless delight in the repressive dark, that allowed me to be content and familiar with all lighter shades of dusk, pointing and laughing at the depression of others. Having experienced ultimate dark . . . shadows didn't seem so bad; they were a gift actually. Hidden from view, I was unbound from the rules, allowing me thoughts others blushed at, and I didn't expect or even want dawn to encase me in its insufferable glow. In that rough aurora, all the scars would become visible and then people would know the ones that been hurt the most, rendering them pitiful and untouchable. Or even worse the clear skinned ones, with no injuries, would try to offer help. I did not need that; I could tend, or more likely not, to my own wounds.   
  
I got out of bed, not bothering to change out of my night shorts and tee, and made my way to the ground level of the ship -- maintenance. Once there, I searched for the tiny gel capsules I knew every ship has to combat against foreign, microscopic bacteria that might live on board. The capsules basically gave off a poisonous chemical that terminates the life of any alien agents that seeped in from space. However, a whole capsule, dissolved, would prove deadly for even larger organisms. I reached the metal cabinet against the corner and opened the door. Inside, in a glass jar the blue capsules were clearly visible and seemed to be glowing at me. I gently lowered a hand in and plucked one out. Holding it up to my nose, I tried to detect any unpleasant odor. Thankfully, there was none. I rolled it around my fingers before tucking it in the little pocket of my shorts.   
  
I plopped down at the kitchen table and looked nervously over my shoulder where Riddick was preparing something to eat for us. I irregularly plucked at the tiny bump near my abdomen while staring intently at Riddick's coffee, that seemed to be glaring at me from across the table. All I had to do was slip the deadly poison into the cup and watch as Riddick's neck muscles swallowed down his Death. I could sense him finishing so I quickly extracted the contaminator and before my fingers released it into the drink, I swore that its venom attached to the swirling ridges of my fingers and if I were to lick one digit, I would quickly pass away. I subconsciously rubbed my hand on my shirt as if that could cleanse me.   
  
The loudness of the plate as it was put in front of me startled me from my musings. Riddick gave me a quizzical look before rapidly wiping away the expression and sitting with his own plate across from me. I looked down at the scrambled eggs and wanted to immediately push the food away. I tugged at a lock of hair absent-mindedly and picked up a fork, using it to play with my food. Riddick on the other hand had no problem with his scrambled eggs, and I realized too late that my eyes were narrowed at him as if accusing him of something.   
  
"No good?" he asked.  
  
In a mental panic, I couldn't figure out what the question was pertaining to at first and when I realized he was inquiring about the eggs, I let out a fluttery laugh that sounded nothing like me.   
  
I nodded my head hastily, while shoving a forkful of eggs in my mouth. "No, it's good," I mumbled.   
  
He nodded slowly at me, and I guess he couldn't resist making a crack about my eating manners.  
  
"So you always chew with your mouth open?" He smirked at me.   
  
I curbed the sensation to roll my eyes and decided to play along. "Well, Riddick does it really matter? No one here but us." I considered something for a second and decided to go in for the mind fuck. "No one but us and God that is." I smiled sweetly at him. "And I hardly think God is caring about my table manners right now."  
  
Riddick looked stricken and pale for a moment before he resumed his eating, in quiet. I pursed my lips and stared at his cup of coffee, my neck tensing. Just one sip would do him in, and I'd been unnaturally chatty not allowing him that one sip. I felt so cold and with each passing second, I could feel the comforting cocoon of desperation enveloping me. Any moment his hand could've reached out and brought the poison to his lips. His unknowing unnerved me, and I felt the pull of wanting to hint at his demise in my bones, but I couldn't think of anything to say. My eyes started to hurt and water because I hadn't blinked in what seemed like an eternity. I couldn't risk a single moment of darkness, or I would miss the defining moment in my life.   
  
"What are you pouting about?" Riddick seemed reluctant to ask the question. Maybe he didn't care for the answer.   
  
"I'm not pouting," I reasoned.   
  
"Good, 'cause there's nothing to pout about." There was an underlying message to that statement that I couldn't quite pinpoint the significance of. Not at that moment anyway.   
  
I chuckled hollowly, not knowing what he was talking about. "Yeah. Thanks for the advice."  
  
His hand reached for the coffee, and my eyes were glued to his face. He was telling me something, but I couldn't make it out. My heart was beating way too quickly, and I had the particular feeling of a well-behaved child caught doing something bad. His fingers wrapped around the steaming cup, and I felt my nails dig into my palm, causing a prickle of pain. The cup moved, as if in slow motion to his lips, and my eyes closed as my body willingly or unwillingly -- I couldn't really tell at the time -- moved forward and my hand grabbed Riddick's wrist. It burned my frigid skin and Riddick's gaze told me my cold fingers hurt his warm skin. Riddick loosened his hold on the cup, trying to gauge what I was doing. I flicked my wrist, and the cup shattered to the floor, spilling the black liquid on the reflecting tile.   
  
I exhaled and felt the ache of defeat slowly building in me. It wasn't soothing like hopelessness. Instead it was like I was forgetting all I stood for and fabricating a lie out of my truth. Never had I made a decision before and then went back on it. It was a bleeding wound of pride as nothing I've ever felt before. I had just been thrust into the light and in its revealing glow, I had some explaining to do. Too bad that physically I was all ready being drained, and the constant tiredness, that comes with a deed you can't go back on, was flowing through me like water through paper.   
  
I just couldn't kill him, the son of a bitch. To see the silver is his eyes fade and his powerhouse energy to die, by my hands, was just too much. Now though I had to live with knowing my weakness was spared and walking around, while I would be encumbered in some hellish environment. Strangely this thought brought me some solace because of its depressing and bleak nature.   
  
I looked at Riddick, after having scrutinized the broken pieces of ceramic enough. He looked eerily calm, waiting for a meaning behind my actions.   
  
"Now, Jack . . ." Riddick lethargically started. ". . . I realize you're strange but mind explainin' that ?" He pointed to the broken cup and oozing coffee.   
  
A melody in my head. Negativity was still a present and persistent influence in my life. Got to love that.   
  
Only problem: What did I tell Riddick? 


	16. Resurrection

::: CHAPTER SIXTEEN :::  
  
I meekly looked at Riddick. The problem wasn't that I had to lie; it was fabricating the lie on the spot. Noticing that I wasn't saying much, he crouched down to pick up the splintered pieces. Wouldn't want me stepping in them -- how nice. I clicked my tongue silently as a thought wriggled its way into my mind.   
  
"Sorry about that, Riddick." My hand gestured lightly to the mess. "It's just that, well, coffee is bad for you."  
  
Riddick instantly looked up at me. "Bad?" He looked like he wanted to chuckle at me.  
  
I empathetically nodded my head. "It's addictive, ya know?" And sometimes poisonous I added silently in my head. I had a know-all expression on my face.   
  
He gave me a lopsided grin, but his eyes held a glimmer of dangerous doubt. "So you were protecting me from the coffee, Jack?" He made it sound like a joke but there was . . . something . . . that I was missing.   
  
"Just trying to do my part, Riddick." My voice came out harsher than I would have liked. Its deep tone was suspiciously halting. I looked back at the coffee, as Riddick resumed searching for ceramic pieces naked to the human eye, and I wondered momentarily if Riddick wanted me to clean it up. That thought, however, was quickly extinguished . . . .  
  
Out of the corner of my eye, something sparkly jumped out at me. I was too stunned to move.   
  
A little, oddly shaped blue lump was simply lying in the black liquid -- taunting me. Its contrasting hue blackened the coffee and my heart even more. All I had to do was quickly bend over and take it out before Riddick noticed, but my fingers, that had touched it before, started to itch and burn. The poison was seeping into me and killing my wicked spirit or making it stronger. Who the hell could focus?   
  
My breathing was erratic, and I rubbed at my forehead before silently slipping to my knees. My hand hovered over the blue capsule and then it swooped down and encased it in its palm.   
  
Riddick must have noticed my sharp movements because his head tilted to the right and looked at my face before moving to my tightly clenched fist. I swallowed roughly and stood up much too quickly, causing Riddick to get up also. I walked over to the cabinet, with my Death still in hand and grabbed a towel.  
  
"It's okay, Riddick. I'll get the coffee."  
  
He completely ignored my diversion. "Jack, what's in your hand?"  
  
"What?" I bid my movements to be slow . . . normal . . . and I looked down at my left hand. "It's just a towel."  
  
Before my sight reached Riddick, I heard a low growl emanate from him. "Your other hand."  
  
My smile passed right through his serious expression and my panic escalated as did my need to protect myself. "There's nothing in my hand," I whispered to him. His mistrust angered me. Even if he had every right to question me, he really had an unhealthy obsession of blaming me for everything.   
  
He stalked towards me, with every emotion invisible. He pacifistically pulled the towel away and let it drop to the floor. He took my right arm in his grasp and through this all my hand didn't dare unfurl to reveal the sticky blue stain that held every secret in its dull color.   
  
"Jack, let me see." It was a stable command. And it made me want to hit him . . . hard . . . over the head . . . with a club . . . repeatedly . . . and watch him bleed to death . . . in severe pain. Gritted thoughts.   
  
Instead I grinned. "No."   
  
Riddick towered over me, and I felt insignificant and jaded. Only I made myself aware of that but now Riddick also had the power. Infuriating to say the least. His hand moved down my arm to tightly grip my wrist. Unknowingly, I had inched -- imperceptibly -- away from him and now my arm hurt, trying to pull out of his strong (without being bruising) grasp.   
  
"Just open up your hand." He sounded reasonable and soothing, almost coaxing me to burst into tears and beg for forgiveness, while I showed him the contamination coating my hand. But I abandoned that idea.   
  
I shook my head, understanding that my resentment was flaring. It wasn't about Riddick seeing the poison I had on my hand anymore; it was about getting the fucker the hell away from me. I couldn't stand having him see me up close and noting my hate and creature-like qualities. The desire to push him and escape was infiltrating me like the cold that can purl through tiny pores of skin and chill you to the bone. Why was he staring . . . no, glaring . . . no, just staring at me like that? Did he hate me? The emotional demand to ask him what he thought of me was powerful and pathetic at the same time.   
  
Riddick's other hand curled around the hand that would most likely fall off due to its twisted deeds and gently played with the fingers, tempting them to open up to him. His gaze held mine as one by one each finger straightened to present the majestic betrayal.   
  
As my hand was exposed to the air, it wept a blue droplet to the floor, hitting Riddick's boot. He stared at my open palm, and I was actually thankful for the momentary escape from his soft gaze.   
  
"What's this, Jack?" There was a twinge of suppressed anger in his voice, and I realized once again that we were alone in space.   
  
"That?" I asked, twitching my hand slightly in his own.   
  
The calm in his voice frightened me more than hateful tones. "Yeah, Jack . . . that," he said, squeezing my hand rather roughly.   
  
I started to cry. It was humiliating and degrading. The only time I cried was on purpose but these were unexpected tears. They felt searing hot on my cold cheek, and I wanted to yell at Riddick that it didn't matter that I tried to poison him because in the end I had saved him. But I knew that would sound childish and immature -- as if I was fishing for compliments because I had excused him from my wrath. However, I knew what each salty tear could hold . . . if I remained in control. They were weak yet powerful, simple yet complicated, and completely impossible in their own right.   
  
The night and stars didn't make sense anymore, when I heard my soundless tears. They were speaking of secrets and plans, and I was the feeble creature trying to decode their message. I heard the invisible clouds in my mind, and I knew they were willing me to discover something that should remain hidden. My annoying intuition submerged me into a world full of paranoia and doubt. A feeling of despair and heaviness strangled my very aura and squeezed the liquid out of my eyes. In essence, I didn't have an aura that pure, but with all these self-destructing thoughts, it seemed that my very center of balance was collapsing. These were all the regular feelings that I experienced during the calm before the storm. Something was coming.   
  
Riddick shook me. "Jack, stop crying," his voice rumbled.   
  
I sniffled and with my free hand wiped at the tears. "I'm sorry," I choked out. Sincerity was foreign to me and my voice was thick with this strange emotion. I was sorry for being caught in my lie, I was sorry for failing to kill someone, but the main reason I was sorry was that I had disappointed Riddick . . . . And this scared me beyond anything I had ever experienced before. Being sorry for someone else was definitely new for me.   
  
A new form of torture, I thought.  
  
Anger flashed behind Riddick's eyes and his demeanor swiftly started to change. Somehow, he didn't like someone apologizing to him, or maybe I was wrong and the effects of what I had tried to do finally hit him full force. He threw my hand away and took me by the shoulders, slamming me against the wall. This quickly got rid of the tears. I didn't even wince at the pain, but I was alarmed at the ferocity apparent in Riddick's mercury eyes. I had awakened the ghost . . . the zombie . . . the creature that had saved my weak life from the abyss of blue blood. But this time the entity wasn't on my side.   
  
Riddick's lips seemed to be snarling at me as he communicated a familiar message that appeared to encompass finality.   
  
"You wanted me dead, Jack? Well, I've just died . . . again, and it feels good to be back." 


	17. Consequences And Spite

::: CHAPTER SEVENTEEN :::  
  
I wanted to use my delicate hand to wipe away the look of insanity in Riddick's now glowing eyes. Too bad Riddick had my arms pinned down along with my crazy rationality. I squirmed in his grasp, making little whimpering noises just for show.   
  
I felt like an oozing substance, particularly the type in needles that is discarded -- for a purpose, of course . . . but still . . . discarded . . . completely and utterly disregarded. It was pain -- raw and unforgiving and not surprisingly I was feeling all hot and bothered because of it.   
  
Pushing against Riddick's iron hold, I touched my legs to his. I rubbed up and down, creating tense friction. A pink bubble gum painted illusion it was.   
  
Riddick growled towards my vicinity and spun me quite quickly to face the wall. I was pushed roughly against it, and my right hand raised up and slammed next to my head to keep me from feeling the full impact. As he pushed against my back, stabilizing my slightly wobbly legs, I couldn't resist throwing a crack at him while remembering his submerging, yet resurrecting, words from before:   
  
"You wanted me dead, Jack? Well, I've just died . . . again, and it feels good to be back."  
  
I laughed out loud at my own private joke. "Gee, Riddick, you die a lot."   
  
The words left my lips and Riddick's hand tapped me on the head, almost causing me to bite my tongue. The smacks didn't stop. His heavy hand landed blows to my neck and back while I just stood as still as possible.   
  
In my opinion, he was hurting flesh . . . skin . . . but definitely not me. Keeping my composure made him think I was a pushover. That was a facade. I was a realist in every sense of the word. Grace covered up my superb sense of intuition and self-assurance. I knew more than Riddick would ever admit to anyone . . . especially himself.   
  
I knew what his eyes looked like at that moment . . . like mockingbirds caught in a cage. I knew what his lips wanted to whisper . . . . I want you to bleed, Jack. I even knew what his demand was . . . . He wanted us to be even. And then the clashing would stop. Too bad he didn't know that no matter how much of an upper hand I stole, I would always find something new to hate to love . . . and that just made me want to own it or crumple it. Either way it was too stifling for him. I had always had a rigid view of how things should be. Strange, but true: Bad luck made me into a strategist . . . expect the worst . . . hope for the "okay." Funny, like weeping stars that drop milky splotches to the ground only to feed deeper roots that bloom daisies.   
  
Riddick tapped my spinal cord . . . like he had done this sort of thing before . . . only he hadn't. He pinched my neck and twisted long fingers in my short hair. I just knew that it must have taken the power of ten panthers to keep him from really injuring my body and tarnishing my already faded spirit. His blows were littered with balance and control from his side; they didn't hurt. But still . . . .  
  
By giving into those dark instincts, he just gave me more power. I just stood as still as possible.   
  
He twisted my left hand behind my back, and my cheek turned to face the cold, steel wall. And I just stood as still as possible.   
  
I was becoming good at being a statue. My insides were already rock. Why not fuse together the outer with the inner?  
  
And soon, as I knew he would, Riddick tired himself out and was calmed down by his own surrender to animal instincts. Although what he had done was purely nonsexual, I wanted to turn it into something much more sinister and damaging to Riddick's morality.   
  
I leaned against his steady chest and turned my eyes, under wisps of hair, to his deadly calm face. I blew each word out like a perfumed cloud.   
  
"I never knew you liked it rough." Puff of air here . . . puff of air there. Thrust of the hips.   
  
Riddick blew the air right back in my face. "Don't play this game." Hips pushed back.   
  
I wanted to snort. What game? My life? Sure, it was ha-ha funny. All I knew at that moment was that the almost merciful blows from Riddick were just the physical intro to my punishment. There was definitely more to come. But like him I knew how to work skin, muscle, nerves for the sole purpose of manipulation. As I was musing and getting lost in my insanity again, Riddick pulled me off the wall, and my right hand slipped off it, leaving a sadistic blue hand print there.   
  
He held me against him momentarily before quickly releasing me to the floor, where I crumpled like a forgotten origami swan. He stepped away from my crooked figure, as I turned my body fully to stare up at him.   
  
Riddick had a scary sureness to his pose. And his words were almost carefree. "Went easy." He was telling me more with his eyes. It definitely went easy.   
  
I couldn't keep the spite out of my voice. "Just the beginning," whispered my inner self.   
  
Smirk appeared on his dangerous features again. "Right you are."   
  
I had to desperately change the mood . . . the atmosphere. I added my own smirk to the concerto. "Thanks for the spanks, Riddick . . . really needed that," I only half joked. And then I swiftly kicked him in the kneecap. Barely a flinch. Naughty him for bringing out any kind of sentiment in me.   
  
I made all my decisions objectively and in a detached manner -- dangerous combination. Riddick should know.  
  
I wasn't angry. My existence was beyond that. And well, truthfully, Riddick just looked tired at the moment in the suddenly dimming light of my eyes. Unseeingly, I had taken another chunk out of his struggling, drowning, pitiful humanity and with each bite (though I made them seem like nibbles), I was coming closer to my goal of destroying him before he annihilated the thing I held dearest -- my independence. If I was going to lose everything, so was he. And what more amusing way to do it than driving him to the brink, pulling him back, and then shoving him over.   
  
Yes, death was too good for him (why had I ever wanted to do that?) This was much better. Too bad that now I had given him a reason to fight back . . . if only in my eyes. 


	18. Hurt Me With The Lights On

::: CHAPTER EIGHTEEN :::  
  
Riddick had locked me into my room after three days of my strangely (for him) sinister disposition. And now I only had three more days till Zemi. Concretely, three more days of "having." Having what, I wasn't exactly sure. All I knew was that it was making my lunacy quite active and volatile.   
  
Two days ago, I had actually topped myself. It was a new devilish record.   
  
Riddick had been sleeping . . . alone. That was expected. Maybe he even expected me trying to crawl into bed with him again . . . and what? Beg for forgiveness? Too late for that. No, I definitely didn't do that. What I did do though was just as shocking. And it wasn't a game. For it to have been a game there would've had to be two players. But it was just me.   
  
I crept into his room a.k.a. the dark side of the moon. He must have felt me, but I think he purposely ignored me, irritated that I might try seducing him or something nonsensical like that. Yeah, right.   
  
I closed the steel door behind me and plastered myself against the cool wall. Staring at Riddick's form on the huge bed, I knew instantly that he had awoken maybe a second before I actually walked in. Senses were obviously still honed. And yet his eyes were closed, not in a tense way . . . but a blissful one. That made me quite jealous; I wanted to be that happy . . . or at least pretend that well.   
  
Using the wall for support, I inched closer, breathing as normal as possible. The scent of the air was actually changing and electrifying as I went towards Riddick, my savior . . . my opponent. Maybe it was a game.   
  
Breathing in the heady scent of mockery and power, I loomed over him. Hadn't he done this before to me . . . before changing my life forever? I thanked his need to stay in control; it kept his eyes closed, transferring me the power to do what I came there to accomplish. Riddick was intelligent and not at all very trusting, but his impulsive desire truly was a vexing for him because as he willed me away through his avoidance, I silently picked up his goggles from the night stand and pulled them over my eyes.   
  
True, I didn't have to do that; I just had to take them. But for a whirly moment I was dragged through a magical castle, and I just had to see what the fire-blowing dragon perceived when protected from his captive's glare. The world became darker . . . tighter . . . easier to understand. There was the moving and the unmoving -- no intermediate. It made my head ache; I quickly removed the goggles, carefully backing out of Riddick's room, his now defiled sanctuary. I retreated back to the tower, that was posing as my room.   
  
Once there, I hid the precious goggles under the mattress. There seriously wasn't anywhere else to; my room was completely bare. My body was uneasy like I had just ran a couple of miles. The last time I had felt anything comparable was when I was running from hammerhead freaks who hadn't tasted human blood in twenty-two years. My mind was coiling around itself until all thoughts were one and the same: I had to move to the next step of my plan.   
  
I walked quickly to the computerized control room, not wanting to waste time. However, I had always had my issues with time. Was it a motivation or a tragedy? Oh hell, I didn't have time to figure that out.   
  
Sliding the heavy door aside, I stepped into this radiating room of silvers and golds. It felt slightly warmer in there, but probably wasn't. The blinks of the comps and the whirring sounds of cooling mechanisms constructed together for a somewhat peaceful atmosphere. This room, too, would be ruined by me.   
  
I stepped up to the comp that controlled the lighting on the ship. It didn't have a password that I needed to decode -- I guess Riddick never felt a demand for one. Even though his eyes were his biggest weakness . . . . He still hadn't bothered firewalling this particular comp. It was almost as if he wanted someone to try to mess with his spectrum of lights. And lucky him, I never refused an invitation.   
  
Noticing that only twenty percent of the ship's lights worked, I hastily changed that to one hundred percent. Now the ship was at full capacity, which was actually extreme. Most space traveler's had the maximum of seventy percent -- never one hundred. Then I programmed for all of these wonderful blinding lights to turn on at exactly the same time -- in twenty minutes.   
  
I slinked back to my room, not locking the control room. My mission wasn't to blind Riddick, so eventually I did want him to get in there and switch back the settings. My goal was to dehumanize him. I just needed him to lose his control . . . if only for a second. And if he couldn't see my human skin but only felt malevolence diffusing from me, that would be inevitable. 


	19. Lights Off And No Pain

::: CHAPTER NINETEEN :::  
  
Click. Whirl. Click. And so it began. The lights snapped on and reality fled to the background. All that remained was the unholy white reverberated by the steel, clean and dirty at the same time. I was waiting outside of Riddick's door, anticipating him coming out and trying to kill me. No doubt he would know that this had been my doing. Funny, I wanted him to try to do exactly that. I needed him to hurt me, lose all control, and in the process screw himself over. Dehumanization always came at a price and even though the consequences would hurt like fuck for me, I was prepared to endure just for his destruction. Self-destruction had always been my talent anyway.   
  
It should be easier for him to hurt me, if he can't see me, I thought.   
  
Riddick's door opened, tentatively, and the first thing I saw was his bare chest and low hanging pants. My mind was a wandering fool, starved for water . . . or whatever. I quickly shut it off.   
  
My eyes moved to his face and noticed his eyes were shut -- tightly and securely. Definitely not blissful anymore. That was what the son of a bitch deserved. Anxiety, not joy. He thought he was strong, he better start acting like it.   
  
Riddick didn't bother closing the door as he moved in my direction. He knew where I was standing. His steps were slow but his arms were hanging loosely at his side. It was quite a feat for him to be pained but look casual at the same time, I mused. For the moment, I was glued to that spot on the floor, mesmerized by Riddick's somber walk towards me. My body chilled to the bone and clammy sweat started forming droplets on my upper lip. Just what I needed -- salty sweat that he could probably smell that would bring him to me. Moth to the flame. Erratic thoughts whizzed through my head.   
  
The floor was spinning and my heart was turning inside out. Seeing Riddick gliding -- yes, gliding -- to me couldn't get anymore frightening. And yet, I wasn't supposed to move . . . . I had to let him mar me in order for my plan to be successful. I knew that his inner monster was just waiting for a reason so it could resurface. I was that reason.   
  
Riddick's voice drifted over me, stabbing me with a thousand needles. Glass. Cut. Fear.   
  
"Jack, I can feel you."  
  
I started breathing through my mouth. More air, I needed more air. "Yeah, but you can't see me," my voice cracked.   
  
His lips curled into a vicious smirk. "Don't need to."   
  
I squeezed my eyes so tightly that I thought tears would spring free. I desperately wished that I couldn't see him. Not the other way around. Try hard as I might, I couldn't keep it together and just wait for him; I twisted my body and ran in the opposite direction. Swallowing excessively, I came to a stop and turned my body to see if Riddick was behind me.   
  
He was.   
  
It seemed like he had gained some equilibrium and was walking much faster. I was officially in a slasher flick. Panting and rubbing the back of my neck, I ran into the room on my left. The right side never attracted me.   
  
Foam was swelling my brain, as I clicked the door closed. No lock. Riddick was going to get in -- no other way around it. I looked around the room, wanting to see the place where Riddick would be shedding blood. What if he killed me? Sure, I wanted him to revert back to eviler ways, but was I really prepared to die for it? The decision was all ready made though -- how could I back out of this? Plus dying was better than enslavement. So yes, I was ready to die . . . as long as every shred of Riddick's humanity did too. Yet, I was hoping -- never praying -- that he would just hurt me a lot.   
  
Riddick walked into the room, while I was straining my body into the corner, trying to mold into the steel. Beautiful, untarnished steel. Steel that was now gleaming from the disgusting lights, not a crevice of darkness anywhere. I just didn't belong in this world -- this bright, gloating world, were shadows were banished. Did that mean I would soon be banished too? Must have -- I was worse than a shadow; I was the epitome of dark. Staring at Riddick's form actually made me feel better -- at least I wasn't the only one who didn't belong in this existence. He looked as much out of place as I did. His bronze skin was out-shimmered by the lights and his expression was wounded by the denial to open his eyes. At least I wasn't alone. I let a ghost of a smile pull my lips upwards, and I knew exactly how Riddick felt. If I was lost in the glow, so was he. If the light burned me, it burned him too. And if I felt vulnerable, so did he. The smile slipped to a dark shadow at my feet. Riddick was close enough to touch me.   
  
His hands reached up and flitted by my face; I recoiled. I shot out of the corner, around to Riddick's back. Before I could turn completely to stare at his back, he had all ready done a 360 and was facing me dead-on. It was like his eyes were open. So eerie . . . so dreadful . . . so beautiful. He once again reached for me, but I kept moving away from him. It was a deadly waltz . . . black shadows roaming the sun's surface. We were unwelcome to the ball, but we just kept on dancing.   
  
I started pulling things off shelves, hoping to trip Riddick's graceful steps. But instead I tripped. Got up. Tripped again. I was awkward and dazed. The desire to claw my eyes out to get the light away was infuriating. The itch spread throughout my whole body and ugly red splotches appeared. The blood was coming to the surface . . . . I guess it knew it would be leaving my body soon. As soon as Riddick captured me.   
  
It felt like hours but it had only been minutes. The exhaustion of dodging Riddick's grasp was making my body want to lull into the fetal position. I hadn't looked directly at him for a while now and when my eyes glanced accidentally at him, I was overwhelmed with his tired presence. He looked . . . wasted . . . vulnerable. It was scary. I had never seen him like that before. The incapability of sight must've really affected him. Was he going to keel over? Had I gone too far? He looked like he was dying. I wanted to make him angry in an inhuman way, but this just made him seem more human. The vulnerability made him weak in a sickening way.   
  
Disturbed by his openly changing demeanor, I involuntarily moved a step closer to him. His head whipped in my direction like he hadn't known I was there. He was off balance that he was actually displacing where I was. His breathing was ragged and he had one hand on the wall, supporting himself. What the hell was wrong with him? I needed him to be mad and kick the shit out of me, not all trembling and fatigued. Now I knew why he had gotten a shine-job in Slam -- not being able to see must've been torturous.   
  
Apparently not being to see also brought back memories for him because he leaned against the wall and shut his eyes even more tightly; little creases were appearing. His voice was hoarse, "Jack."  
  
I gulped and rolled my shoulders. "What?" The question sounded accusing. I didn't know why. Like he was the one ruining my plan or something.   
  
The sentence started off softly but raised in crescendo. "Turn off the fucking LIGHTS!" he roared.   
  
I winced from the words. For a second, I actually wanted to ease his pain and maybe turn off the light, but I just couldn't give in. "I can't," I whispered.   
  
His voice took on a warning tone. "Do it."   
  
Shaking my head no, I went towards him. "I can't." It was a mantra. "Sorry," I mouthed. I hoped he didn't hear that.  
  
I couldn't turn off the light, but I could aid him a bit because for a second I related . . . being alone did hurt. Warily I approached him and slowly raised my arm to touch him. He seemed to flinch but it could've just been my imagination. Whispers flooded my mind and scared me with foreboding. I shushed them and laced my fingers through Riddick's. His other hand came up and tightened around my throat, but there was no drive behind it so he squeezed once . . . twice . . . and then let go. Leaning closer to him, I felt heat radiating off him. Pulsing, horrible heat. He detached from the wall and used me for support instead. He had lost all sense of direction. The silence was filling the room with empty tension. I just had to say something.   
  
Nothing came to mind, however, except, "I'm here."   
  
Riddick grunted as if acknowledging me was too threatening to his existence.   
  
I pulled him to my room and sat him on the corner of my bed -- his muscles shifting and relaxing as I let go of him. Shuffling to the other side, I dug my hand under the mattress and produced Riddick's goggles. I didn't know exactly how to give them back. What should I say? Here, I just found these laying around? I didn't think that would work.   
  
I went to stand in front of him and lowered my face level with his. I studied every line on his face. He was . . . interesting. However, he seemed a little nervous about my close inspection and warm breath washing over him so I stopped. Tugging at his arm, I brought up his hand, palm up. Distractedly, I noted he had a very long life line, like me -- this was no time for palm reading though. I gingerly placed his goggles in his hand, along with my fate, and then I stepped back.   
  
Riddick growled, a little bit more energized and slipped the goggles on. He raised his head to my probably ghastly white face and his goggles creepily reflected the light. Sick as it sounded, I willed him to hurt me. My plan couldn't have been a complete waste of time, especially since I was running out of that precious commodity.   
  
Riddick rose from the bed, as if the weakness from before had never existed. Had he been faking it? Somewhere deep in me though, I knew he hadn't. I was nervous; it was obvious.  
  
"Guess you never saw who was sneaking behind you in the dark this time, huh, Riddick?" Not funny. Vaguely aware of that.   
  
Being slammed against the wall for a second time did not make it less shocking or painful. My blood must have bubbled in my veins and my bones must've shook from the impact. Do it . . . do it . . . do it . . . come on, Riddick, I know you want to, my mind screamed. A slap . . . a punch . . . something . . . make me fear your name, Richard B. Riddick. Hurt me to hurt you. Let those feelings of rage out, you know you want to, I sent telepathic messages to him. Take your frustration out on me . . . yes, me . . . who stole your goggles and turned on all the lights. Exposed you . . . deliberately, cruelly, and maliciously hurt you. Don't see the real reason, Riddick, just know that I'm crazy.   
  
"Do it," I said. The words were a reflection . . . an echo. Hadn't he uttered the same ones a few minutes ago? I was losing it. His brow furrowed, and he looked like he might seriously damage me for a moment. I begged me to just do it . . . to just let go. I've let it all go -- why couldn't he? If he didn't, I failed . . . simply lost everything. I would be shunned to the pirates, while he went on -- all controlled and superior. Couldn't have that.   
  
Riddick squeezed my shoulders tightly, and I was sure he was going to break bones. I couldn't see his eyes, but I was sure the dangerous glint was there. My eyes? They were probably puffy and red . . . hurt from the suffocating lights. There was a buzzing around Riddick . . . . A ferocious rumble threatening to escape his lips. He was going to do it. I welcomed it, reluctantly . . . but still it was a welcome.   
  
My eyes closed of their own accord, as if that could somehow block out the impending pain. Turning my face away, I waited for the blows. They never came. I blinked my eyes open and Riddick looked conflicted. With a sharp growl, he shook me and pushed me against the wall some more; he was so close to letting go . . . Why wasn't he? Finally, he slammed me once more, forcing me to struggle and then just walked out.  
  
Just walked out.   
  
I ran to the door but when I tried to open it, it was locked. Banging my fist against it just seemed desperate so I didn't do that. I slipped down to the floor and touched my cheeks. Finding wetness there didn't surprise me. Nothing surprised me anymore.   
  
As I was crawling back to stability, the lights flickered and then went off . . . completely. That was zero capacity. Silent and wonderful. Riddick had locked me in my room and submerged me in absolute darkness? That was the number one way for me to feel comfortable fully digging out of my shell. Did he really want to awaken the shriveled, slimy thing that was me? God, he didn't know what he doing. I'll go crazy in the dark, I thought. No, crazier.   
  
And now two days later, here I was -- stuck in the room dripping inky black, blending into the background . . . so effortlessly.   
  
Like I said before, three more days until Zemi. Three days. Not one. Not two. But three. Easy? Nope.  
  
Three days . . . enough time for something to go wrong. 


	20. Amends In The Dark Light

::: CHAPTER TWENTY :::  
  
Laying on my bed with my eyes closed, made absolutely no difference. Dark was dark. Eyes opened and guess what it would be? Yep, dark. Eyes closed and at least darkness was a choice. One of the few I still had the power to make. Pathetic.   
  
Choice was after all what had brought me here. Sure, Riddick was the one who had kidnapped me, but I was the one who left home in the first place. With good reason, yeah. Reason and choice . . . sometimes they didn't mix well. I just thought that a change of location would make me less insane . . . boy, was I wrong. It probably would have done that . . . if I hadn't met insane Riddick. Insane and insane made quite a team. Friction and competition was fun in theory but put me and Riddick in a cage, and it wasn't exactly a friendly challenge. I noticed, don't think I didn't, that while I went to extreme measures to shake Riddick, all he had to do was stare at me, and I dissolved into floaty mist.   
  
Soothing as being alone and in the dark was, I still thought about him. Why couldn't I stop? Who was he? And yet I could answer that question. Riddick was strength, magnetism, confidence, edginess, and danger all wrapped up in me -- audacity, charm, intuition, and secrecy. So we did click. Like freaks in the dark.   
  
I almost unleashed an anguished groan. What I wouldn't have given to be home right then. But then again if I was, I wouldn't have ever met Riddick. He who was my end was also a glimmer of hope for me that I wasn't the only one who enjoyed solitude in wide strokes. Comforting, I supposed it was.   
  
Physically, I was just a wisp . . . so fragile, but inside I had seen my share. Share of pain, loss, and bitterness. My whole life I was the odd one amongst this suffering. That was a big question mark. I was unaffected and yet blame was always shoved my way. Here, eat this pain my life told me. Digest it and absorb it. So it wasn't my fault that now even my bones ached. I had swallowed enough . . . so I fought Riddick. And I lost. Obviously Riddick had swallowed a lot more misery than me. His bones were iron.   
  
I stroked my cheek, pretending it wasn't me. Feigning I was actually something worth touching.   
  
Forget that. I twisted unto my stomach and hugged the pillow around my face. I breathed in the cottony smell and was instantly upset about the fleck of reality that generated from the pillow. I threw it away and bounced slightly on the bed. Big sigh coming from me emanated all around the room and made my skin warm. Frustration . . . I needed to get the hell out of this room. Pinching the top of my nose, I slid off the bed unto the floor. At least it was cooler down there.   
  
What could I do? I practiced sniffling . . . I tried whistling . . . I experimented with kissing. Boring. I wanted to cry from the lack of activity. It was numbing me. Giving me reason to let go of sanity. It was a bitch of a choice.   
  
My brain was itching and buzzing and not letting me sleep. I lay on the hard bed and dropped my thoughts to low volume, wishing for a few hours of peace. I was falling asleep, enjoying the distorted feeling it gave me, and forgetting my worries for a while, when I heard a creak. I hadn't heard anything in two days so I bolted up in bed. Breathing heavy all ready, I swore my heart was lodged in my throat, killing me. Calm down, it's only you and Riddick on the ship, I told myself. Yeah, Riddick. Not relieving.   
  
The door to my room slowly opened and it let in all the living atmosphere from the other side. It made me nauseous. I fixed myself up, quickly scrambling to a sitting position and calming my breathing. As always, I couldn't deal with Riddick or anyone for that matter seeing me distraught. On the other side of the door was also dark . . . . Riddick must've shut down light-power all throughout the ship. Lucky him . . . he must love the freedom the blackness gives him. I couldn't quite see him, but I did sense him. He wasn't angry anymore. But I was still afraid to hear him speak, of hearing pity in his voice. I dropped my eyes and hoped against hope that he didn't make me feel any worse than I did in that finite moment.   
  
"Made dinner. Want some?"  
  
I let a tiny smile appear, as I looked down at my lap. Riddick's voice had held not even an ounce of pity. Lovely. When I turned my head up to him though, I made sure no smile was there. Quickly I nodded an unobtrusive yes and waited for him to bring some to my room. When he stepped away though, leaving the door open, I was slightly confused.   
  
I heard him from down the hall though. "Come on, Jack."   
  
Almost jumping away from the bed as if it was a shark, I practically skipped to the door. Then it hit me. I didn't have a shine-job . . . couldn't see where I was going.   
  
"Um, Riddick, where are you?" My voice sounded unsure and unused.   
  
"Right here." He appeared out of nowhere and guided me to the kitchen, sitting me in a chair. I had a feeling that was the only time he had pulled out a chair for anyone. And even then . . . it was only because I couldn't see the damn thing.  
  
Sitting in the dark, not knowing where Riddick was made me uneasy, but the smell of food was overriding my concern. Not eating for two days can do that. I didn't dare ask for light though. Don't know why . . . guess I felt like I didn't deserve it.   
  
Just as I was fidgeting in my chair and resisting the urge to bite the skin around my nails, a tiny light flickered on. It illuminated the table I was sitting at and gave off enough of a glow so I could see Riddick walking back in. I should've said thank you, but I didn't know how. So I just sat there. Moment passed and Riddick gave me a plate of chicken with mashed potatoes. Inhaling deeply, I followed him with my eyes as he sat down across from me, like he had done before, with his own plate of food. I had to keep it together. To do that I picked up my fork and hesitantly poked at the chicken.   
  
Riddick was staring at me. I could feel his eyes penetrating my exterior expertly. He had all ready picked the lock and was now staring straight into my mind. The dim light in the room was just eerie now and gave the illusion of a cemetery at night. But who was living and who was dead in this room?   
  
I couldn't stand the shattering silence. "Thanks for dinner," I managed to squeak out. I wasn't even sure if it was audible.   
  
A clashing of steel against steel could be heard from Riddick's plate. Then his rumbling voice. "Tried to keep it poison free . . . just for you."   
  
Gulp. Choke. Cough. Not funny, Riddick, I thought. His hand reached over the table and patted my back almost aversely. A wicked laugh escaped my dry lips. "Well, you still haven't given me something to drink . . . so there's still a chance."   
  
He let out a short quasi-laugh before pouring some water in my glass. I trusted him . . . . I think. I gulped it all down. Nope, no deadly poison . . . just pure water. Welcomed and cool against my throat . . . . I noticed Riddick watching me swallow. Uncomfortable. But catching his eyes with mine, I let the silver calm me. Because the silver was not cloudy it came easily. Placid and untroubled . . . so relaxing . . . almost wandered in and unified with the color. I wanted to be the glow in his eyes. Maybe I was?   
  
"More water?" No mockery in his voice.  
  
Contact was broken but not pulverized. His lips held my interest now. I licked my own and nodded for more water . . . or at least that's what I think I was nodding for.   
  
This time I sipped . . . didn't want to make it disappear. Irrational . . . like water was my lifeline or something. Oh, well, I guess it was. My physical one, anyway. No conversation existed in the empty space between Riddick and me. Maybe because all the dialogue was in my head, figuring how to make things logical again. Couldn't think for long though because Riddick directed a question towards my fuzzy brain.   
  
"What do you miss most about being on the ground?"   
  
Too bad my brain was occupied right at the moment because before thinking I blurted out, "Rain." My eyes widened, and it was strange that I shared that. It meant that not even T2 had taken that away from me.   
  
However, Riddick seemed to accept this answer. "You like the rain?" I think he seemed genuinely interested.   
  
"Um, well . . . yeah, it has this sound . . . ." I bit my bottom lip. "It crackles . . . with this new energy. I dunno . . . it's hard to explain." Looking in Riddick's direction, delicately frowning, I begged my brain to come up with something more coherent. I sighed. This was hopeless. "It's the only time I feel steady."  
  
"Probably 'cause while the rain is chaotic you get the chance to feel less . . . ."  
  
"Chaotic," I finished for him. My lip twitched in half disbelief. "Yeah, you're right." And he was right.   
  
"What do you miss?" I just had to ask.   
  
The answer came much too quickly and starkly. "Nothing." Riddick's voice sounded hard . . . firm . . . and yet strength was not present.   
  
I understood. What was there to miss from Slam . . . the dark? . . . the dampness? . . . the death? No, he was right.   
  
Again.   
  
There was nothing to look back on. And everything for him to forget.   
  
Suddenly, I was dead exhausted. Without meaning to, I whispered to myself, "I'm so tired."   
  
"So sleep," Riddick snidely said. He sounded irritated.   
  
I snapped my eyes to him. "It's not the kinda tired I can sleep off."   
  
His eyes ran to mine. I could actually hear his thoughts processing information, weighing words . . . trying to figure me out.   
  
Did I give him too much information? Hell yeah . . . and it felt good. 


	21. Tired And Truthful

::: CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE :::  
  
Today was the last day that I would be on the ship . . . with Riddick. And I was all ready having trouble breathing. I sat in the dark cockpit, alone, surveying space through the window. It was endless and its ample power to exist was magnificent. While wars raged on planets, while people polluted their own blood, and while strange creatures evolved in its womb, space remained unshaken. I was in awe of its strength and at the same time despised its utter perfection. For a moment, I had the urge to bore a hole through the glass and allow space to seep through the ship and my skin, and further freeze my blood, until I was truly flawless too . . . dead. Pale glass with iced veins. I actually believed by accepting just a fraction of the beautiful atmosphere inside of me that it would reverse the damage in me . . . whatever it was.   
  
Just as I was drifting to sleep in the chair, that I was slightly swiveling, Riddick walked in, almost immediately changing the room's aura from cold to warm. There was now a conflict of air . . . my frosty essence battling his blistering one. The chill would always triumph though and that was probably one of the main reasons Riddick had to get rid of me quicker . . . my spirit, or lack of, was killing him.   
  
He sat down in the pilot's seat to check we were still on course, I assumed. As he did so, I turned my chair to face him . . . . Might as well make him feel uncomfortable in the only creepy way I could. My body was limp, as it slid down the chair a bit further and I relaxed my arms, fingertips brushing against the floor, tracing dust. I tilted my head to the side, studying Riddick. Being exhausted though was winning, and I couldn't concentrate. My eyelids felt like they were storing water as they kept trying to droop closed. Come on, talk to me, big guy, I thought. Keep me awake.   
  
Just as I thought I would be taken into the arms of Morpheus, Riddick's voice, which sounded as lethargic as I felt, rolled to me.   
  
"Are you packed?"  
  
Irritation flooded my blood but I pushed it down. "No, not packed yet." Would've liked to add a "fuck you" there, but I didn't.   
  
"Well, you're gonna have to --" he started to say.  
  
"Look! I'm gonna fuckin' do it, okay?" I hated someone telling me what to do, especially since I had my own mental schedule. Everything had to be on my terms ... from life decisions to when I should fucking pack my shit up. God, I disliked being tired . . . . It made me really crabby . . . and being in a bad mood influenced my emotions too much. I needed to stay in control, especially now when I was entering foreign territory.   
  
"Jack, don't get fuckin' angry just 'cause I have to make sure you're ready," he enunciated the "I" like it was a responsibility I had forced on him or something.   
  
Riddick was obviously tired too. I just had to laugh. Jaded . . . weary . . . tired . . . . It was making us both seem like children. Between the short, dry chuckles I managed in, "Life is shit."   
  
Riddick grinned and he seemed to agree . . . and accept it as a good thing. Stupid fool probably thought he had built some kind of resistance to it . . . to all the pain. I had to laugh again -- snicker, actually.   
  
I took a breath and relaxed in the chair again, nudging Riddick's chair with my foot to face me. "I hate life. I'm just ridin' it out 'til death," I whispered to the only things clearly visible in the dark room, his silver eyes.   
  
"Jack, you should really see a psychiatrist about your death wish," he joked.   
  
"Been there, done that." I tried to keep it light, but it was hard considering my actual counselor. And than the second part of his sentence hit me. "Plus, I don't have a death wish." Chewing my bottom lip, I said, "And Riddick you should stop playing it as if you hate life too." I all ready knew he was asking himself why I would say something like that so I decided to enlighten him. " 'Cause you strike me as the type of guy who loves life."  
  
That awarded me with sharply raised eyebrows. Riddick was definitely confused now. I slid my legs closer to his as I sleepily mumbled, "I mean yeah, it's true -- you fight so much for your miserable life, you're so willing to risk death to escape from crazed mercs, and you'd actually be proud to die instead of giving your life to Slam." I stifled a yawn and avoided Riddick's probably increasingly darkening gaze. "So yep, you dig life -- in your own twisted way." Rubbing the imaginary liquid out of my eyes, I continued my idle musings. "Me? I actually hate life -- not just fakin' it." I ran my hands through my short, wavy hair, leaning my head back. "In fact I hate it so much, that I refuse to die for it." I didn't know if what I was saying was making much sense, but I just had to get it out. "You see, I despise everything about my life . . . so it would be quite a shame if I died for it. Life isn't worth my death sacrifice . . . . That would mean I actually thought it was an important element . . . but since it's not, I'm just gonna wait it out . . ." I smirked in a sick way. ". . . It'll get tired of me and then I'll die," I finished with a tiny, playful push to Riddick's knee with my own.   
  
As I looked over at him, I noticed his silence . . . almost stunned to muteness, but that was a much too strong assumption coming from a sleepy girl. He finally spoke. "We're gonna be landing in four hours." His voice sounded like he had gone five days without sleep . . . . I really had an effect on him . . . comforting and disturbing.   
  
I got up, riddled with passive sluggishness, and started for the door. "I'm gonna go pack now," I said nonchalantly. But before I could truly end on an offhand note, I got the firm craving to jar Riddick with some more truth. "Riddick, ya know, I'm not mad anymore -- I can understand how you made that choice to lock me away . . . . I'm truly not a good survivor."  
  
Reaching the door, I heard Riddick's straightforward voice poke at me. And his genuine, plain -- like white against black -- tone was what surprised me, as he said, "You are . . . a survivor. You've made it so far in a world you hate."  
  
I hunched my shoulders and nodded my head, not yes or no. "Yeah, but I feel this gnawing desperation in my bones, and I know my soul is gone . . . an -- and I'm starting to like it." I swallowed down words that actually weren't going to leave my lips, and walked slowly to my room . . . to pack. 


	22. Cotton Candy And Creepy Clowns

::: CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO :::  
  
As we approached Zemi, I stared in wonderment at Riddick's swift, precise movements to gear the ship up for landing. He really knew what he was doing. I was slightly jealous -- I wished I was so talented at one thing. But that would've taken too much work on my part, and I liked to do everything easy. So in a way, I was actually proud of Riddick's endurance to perfect himself at one skill -- piloting -- even after all the shit he had to go through. Actually, he probably had to learn to fly because of all that shit . . . hmmm, quite a puzzle. Too bad I would never get the chance to figure him out -- he really was an interesting creature -- but we were landing soon.   
  
I strapped in, and watched his concentrated features, as we weaved -- no, surged -- through tense atmosphere, and rattled the air up as we went. I really had to stop thinking "we," especially since Riddick was doing all of the angular twists to shatter through the planet's barrier. It really was incredible and if he had looked over at me in that moment, he would have noticed a look of admiration that was akin to the old Jack -- the fake one I made up -- painting my face. No, that wasn't completely true . . . the old Jack was infatuated and had feigned adoration . . . I instead had real appreciation for Riddick's dexterity. Lines were always blurred by emotion, so it was a good thing that I bit down hard on surfacing feelings and switched my gaze to the planet Zemi, the most colorful fucking planet I had ever seen.   
  
Pink, lime, and purple gases swirled across the planet's surface, and it looked worse than a clown's face. Great, even the planet was mocking my arrival . . . having a semblance of jubilance, when all I would find on it was cuffs and chains. It was sick and demeaning that a planet colored for happiness would only contain pain for me. Sick, but realistic for my existence. As we got closer to the planet's surface, I noticed we were heading for a huge, cleared lot, that contained only a few other ships. Circus must not be in town, I thought wryly. Riddick expertly brought the ship down, making sure to dock away from the other ones.   
  
He started clicking the ship to "power-off" and sat back, seemingly content with his work. Without being told so, I went to my room and picked up my packed bag. As I trudged back, as slowly as possible, I heard the entrance hatch lower and a warm breeze blow through the ship. Flinching a bit at the alien contact, I squinted my eyes over the onslaught of sunshine. Dread at the potential openness I would have to face carved slits in my heart, and I gasped as I stepped out unto the ground, after Riddick. I was actually frightened by being in the sun again, of having to see people, of having enough room to breathe . . . . It was petrifying facing all this after being cooped up in a ship . . . even if that ship had held a dangerous killer.   
  
Riddick rolled his neck back and forth, working out the kinks. His back was to me and as he loosened his body he told me, "Don't worry . . . that initial panic will wear off. Trust me."   
  
If anyone should know, it was Riddick. He had probably felt the same way the first couple of times he escaped Slam, and then gotten used to it. I nodded my head even though he couldn't see me and whispered more to myself than him, "Yeah, but I'll be going from one closed space to another."   
  
After Riddick seemed fully slack, he tilted his head, telling me, "Come on."   
  
I followed him to a booth, where he kept looking back at me while talking to the guy behind the glass. Yeah, Riddick I planned to run away while your back was turned. What a freak. How far would I get? A couple of steps? When he was finally finished confirming his stay on Zemi, he walked over to me and plucked my bag from my shoulder. "I'll take that."  
  
I wanted to think it was just a nice gesture, but he probably only took it, thinking that I wouldn't try to run without my crap. He was wrong; if I thought I had a chance, I would've fled the moment my feet touched the ground. But whatever; if he wanted to haul around my things, so be it.   
  
We left the lot and were almost immediately greeted with what looked like some kind of bazaar. Only I got the feeling it was an everyday sort of thing. Stalls, selling various crap, were lined up neatly in rows and men -- well, it was mostly men -- were shouting direct advertisements for their products. Even though this looked all droll and antique, I could see in the distance the looming effects of urbanization. Huge digital billboards floated in the sky and ugly, sharp, metallic buildings pierced the heavens. It actually looked as if this metropolis was threatening to overflow unto the ancient stalls, pushing them further and further away. Such a poignant contrast made for repelling scenery.   
  
Riddick pointed to a particularly hideous looking building. "That's our destination."   
  
I looked at him in disbelief. "Oh great, we're visiting Dracula." He frowned at me. "What?" I asked with light concern in my voice. "Was he a cousin of yours?" I laughed at my own quip and walked ahead.   
  
Realizing I had no clue where I was going, I slowed down my pace, almost professionally blending my strides with Riddick's. We hiked up a sloping street and stopped at the shuttle waiting area. We were the only ones there, since a lot of people must have had hover cars on this planet, I assessed quickly. That meant it was a lucrative planet -- a lot of business deals went down here. No matter how peculiar my situation was, I had the obsessive-compulsive desire to evaluate my surroundings, detachedly. It was a gift. It was my downfall. Truly, I had to stop caring about perceptions, but I just couldn't.   
  
Even in the mental squabble I lived in, I still cared what others thought of me. Strange . . . but I supposed an extension that comes with insanity. It wasn't that I wanted to please everybody; it was more along the lines of deeming myself perfect in their eyes so they could please me . . . remember me. I felt like I hadn't achieved that with Riddick and it sawed at my insides, creating tense knots.   
  
As we boarded the shuttle and Riddick sat down, I opted to stand and stare pointedly at him. "So where are we goin' ?" I tried to ask dissuasively.   
  
"Meet a guy," came the quick response.   
  
"Care to elaborate . . . ." Getting fed up, the words didn't sound as composed anymore.  
  
Riddick definitely picked up on it; his forehead wrinkled, as his eyebrows rose. "No."  
  
I sighed and swung half way -- dishearteningly, may I add -- around a pole before spilling in the seat next to Riddick. Wanting to voice something that formulated to "are we there yet" in my mind, I chose to remain silent.  
  
As the shuttle came to a stop, I immediately took in the appearance of the silver, yet gothic looking, building. It had blue tinted roses, obviously fake, running intricate patterns up its side and a huge glass door that allowed people a glimpse into the extravagant hallway. Riddick and me walked up to those very glass doors and while I remained mesmerized by the blooming roses, Riddick rang a bell. It chimed an acute sound and we were almost immediately buzzed in and welcomed by an electronic voice saying, "Welcome to the Shoc Residence." Inside, we entered a tin box that swept us upwards to the main floor.   
  
Almost as soon as the doors slid open to the elevator, I was accosted by the wealth visible. There were chandeliers and gold interwoven through the carpets and a servant standing near by, almost "Shoc-still." Before I could take all of this in and poke Riddick to point out that whoever lived here must have a lot of time on their hands, a heavily dressed man came fleeting in. His nervous demeanor and expensive dress robe gave him a Paris-like countenance. However, it was blatantly evident that this "Paris" was all sugary smiles and glittering teeth. The way they glistened gave him the appearance of a hungry wolf. He reached us and the smile pulled back more to reveal countless rows of white teeth, ready to bite into something.   
  
"Hello, I'm Mr. Shoc." His hand reached out to shake Riddick's. "I presume you're Mr. Riddick," he said and then tilting his perfectly blemish-free face towards me said, "and this must be Audrey."   
  
I shoved my hands in my pockets and took slight offense at being called Audrey. I mumbled, "Jack," but I was sure he didn't hear me and Riddick didn't correct him.   
  
Mr. Shoc quickly shuffled us into his grandiose salon. The material possessions of this guy made me sick. Soon I would probably just be another part of his exhibition. I purposely sat as close to Riddick as possible without touching him on the creme colored couch and stared at Mr. Shoc, across from us, with my mean face on. His hand reached for a tray on the table between us and presented us with some -- what is that? -- chocolate covered mints. Probably from Brazil, rich fucker.   
  
"Care for a mint, Audrey?" his voice sounded velvety and wrong. "They're so creamy and refreshing." His eyes quickly flitted across my body, and I crossed my arms, shaking my head no. Fuck no. While I was getting smacked by the reality of my situation, Riddick had the audacity to pluck a mint off the tray and suck on it. Motherfucker. I had the intense urge to squish all the mints in his calm face.   
  
Sitting there, seething on the wonderfully plush couch, I took into account a white envelope on the table. Great, here I am, I thought, becoming just another business transaction. "Meet your new master" was my last thought before Riddick and Mr. Shoc started talking, probably negotiating, and I just mentally blinked them out.   
  
I stared around the room and mediated on my fixation to present myself a certain way to people. Maybe this life of exhibition is what I deserved, since all I did in my real life was play a role. I had always seen life in separate acts, so I acted accordingly to each change. When I had finally stopped trying to keep up appearances with my old life and boarded the Hunter Gratzner, my new life tumbled out of control and twisted itself so I was right back to Act 1. Marvelous how you could escape the clutches of razor sharp talons but couldn't escape destiny. It all melded together in Time.   
  
Maybe I could re-teach myself to masquerade as a porcelain doll for this Mr. Shoc, I thought. But even as my mind tried to convince me -- no, comfort me --, I knew that whatever time I spent with Riddick had altered my perceptions -- I couldn't think of myself as passive anymore. Sure, I would keep my semblance of idleness but inside I would force myself to discern the truth in what I imparted -- imparted on my own life and the lives of others. It sounded like an easy transition but in fact for someone like me -- who didn't care -- it was a problematic assumption. The premise of being able to see things for what they really were was slowly becoming my talent.   
  
While my brain visualized these novel speculations, I faintly heard Mr. Shoc speak in the background.   
  
"I'm sure Audrey will make a wonderful daughter," he exclaimed.   
  
My features contorted and I flicked my head to stare at Mr. Shoc. Daughter? Had he said daughter? Did he just fucking say that? I looked at Riddick, but I couldn't distinguish any change in him. My senses quickly clicked to the conversation.   
  
Mr. Shoc went on to explain, "Yes, I lost my wife and only daughter in a hover-vehicle accident." He looked to Riddick for sympathy but of course he didn't receive any. "It was a horrible case -- the only solace I have is that they died quickly," he continued.   
  
Riddick just nodded his head and I was just freaking out. Was I going to be some sort of daughter replacement? Sure, it was better than sex slave . . . but still, I would have to enact a role not meant for me. The greatest fucking performance of someone else's life.   
  
"Did you complete your end of the deal?" Riddick suddenly asked, gruffly.   
  
Mr. Shoc seemed frazzled for a moment; he wasn't used to Riddick's whiskey voice. "Um -- ye -- yes, everything is ready," he finally got out, picking up the white envelope and handing it shakily to Riddick.   
  
Somehow, the thought that Riddick chose specifically a guy who didn't want a sex slave but just a daughter gave me a sick sort of consolation that maybe he really did care somewhat for me. He was selling me -- no doubt about that -- but at least it wasn't to some fiend. I looked over at the photos on the wall, imagining myself having to take over the life of the girl portrayed in the pictures. She displayed stupidity and naiveness for me, but I supposed that I could bluff my way through it.   
  
While I licked my lips and thought up ways of surviving at least a few years of acting like some fluff of a human being, Riddick opened the envelope to reveal a gold cred-card, which meant a six-figure pay day. That's all I'm worth, I wondered, but quickly banished the thought.   
  
As I allowed myself to feel a tiny bit relieved, my somber, much smarter, self, that had recently improved and pledged to see things clearly, tapped my obscure soul and told me to keep my eyes sharp. 


	23. Missed Opportunities And Pulse Points

::: CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE :::  
  
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Riddick," Shoc extended his hand once again. This time Riddick refused it . . . not only that . . . refused to move his ass from the couch and leave. The transaction was seemingly over and he looked like he might pull out a tent and park it here. UN-fucking-believable. He sure was making this hard on me. With each passing second, the desire to fling on to him and never let go was increasing while my resolve to tough it out for a couple of years as Missy Shoc was decreasing. Riddick picked the best methods to create tension. I didn't know what he was exactly waiting for, but being with him for a while allowed me the knowledge that he was as taut as a rope . . . waiting to . . . what?   
  
I looked over at him and through my blurry eyes, full of missed opportunities, I caught a glimpse of his neck. Complete, irrational need came over me; I wanted to lick his neck . . . sounded weird even to me . . . but I desired to shove my face in the crook, sniff, and suckle over his pulse point like the mewling animal that I was. My nose, of its own accord, inhaled sharply and my eyes grew more bleary while the pupils dilated. My tongue was thick as it timidly caressed my upper lip and my nails dug into skin . . . my skin . . . even though I wished it was Riddick's. He was going to leave me here and all I craved at the moment was to mark him in some way so if others saw him they would go: "Jack had been there."   
  
And after that initial need to covet, I was struck by the impulse to just make him want to stay with me. Not force him but make him prefer to not abandon me. Strange, but even with that, the first thing that came to mind was licking his neck . . . different context . . . different feelings it would bring, I concluded.   
  
Who was I kidding? I just wanted to bolt to him like I was thirsty and he was water. I knew if I hurled myself at him though, that I would crouch into a tiny ball and never let go; he would have to either encircle me in his arms and hold me or tug me off and place me on the ground. His decision was what scared me -- the not knowing what his reaction would be was what held me back.   
  
After all this time, I still had no clue what Riddick felt about me and it was pinching all my veins closed, numbing me. Here I was -- last moment before Riddick would literally walk out, and I was a dizzy wreck. My thoughts stumbled over themselves and words were threatening to mizzle out so I shut my mouth. My hands came up, rubbing my eyes, trying to blind me.   
  
Even though that felt like forever and a day, it had probably only been a minute or so because if it had been longer, Mr. Shoc would've been quite nervous that the huge man before him was not leaving. As I continually stared at Riddick, trying to figure out how to ask him how he felt about me, his head moved in my direction while his hand lifted up his goggles. Squinting the light out of his eyes, he focused his gaze on my green eyes, that felt lazy gray, and the carbon dioxide that was about to travel out of my body stopped and "poofed" in my chest, poisoning my ability to breathe.   
  
Riddick regarded me with a serious expression and in his eyes I saw missed opportunities reflected back. Whether they were mine or his I didn't know. He lowered his head slightly, as if he was going to tell me a secret and whispered, "Take care of yourself, kid." With that and an unexpected sad sigh from me, he got up, lowering his goggles back down.  
  
Without thinking, I immediately stood up too. Now all three of us were up but the cold realization that only one of us was leaving bit my neck, sucking me dry.   
  
Exposed. Revealed. Vulnerable. These words stuck in my mind as I realized that I would've walked all the way to the door with Riddick, thinking that I was going with him. It didn't matter that we had just finished the trade; instinct compelled me to follow him no matter where he went. I hadn't gotten up as a person who was saying bye but as a person leaving. Riddick must've noticed that because his arm raised up a bit before dropping back down to his side. Was he about to stop me? I was too frazzled to think. All I felt was shame that Riddick had seen me slip and forget what he had done to me -- that he sold me.   
  
I quickly tried to play it off, but inside I realized that who cares if Riddick saw that -- he had a right to know. Why pretend that I was strong anymore? The pink heat from my cheeks disintegrated and my head came back up. I nodded to Riddick, kind of letting him know he could leave, but he seemed hesitant. Was he stalling? Mr. Shoc was staring at both us, probably mesmerized by the whole conversations we could have with just our bodies.   
  
Finally, Riddick took the first step towards the door, and I tentatively followed, feeling Shoc's eyes on my back -- creepy for some reason. Riddick reached the threshold and turned to me one final time; I just glumly stood there, purposely pouting and hunching my shoulders -- one last guilt trip for old times sake.   
  
Mr. Shoc shuffled past me, brushing my arm in the process and awarding me with an unwarranted shiver. Riddick frowned as I flinched but allowed Shoc to open the electronic locks and the door. Mr. Shoc came back behind me -- he really didn't like Riddick, I guessed and put an arm on my shoulder, probably a fatherly thing -- I didn't know.   
  
Riddick moved backwards towards the exit saying, "I'm sure you'll both find what you're looking for," in a subdued tone.   
  
I wanted to shout "NO!" at the top of my lungs but Riddick was turning away and as if in slow motion, Mr. Shoc's hand was rubbing down my arm, sickeningly tickling all the tiny hairs, past my hand, pinching it, and finally reaching my hip, moving round it to my ass and grabbing it while saying, "I'm sure we will," keeping his voice innuendo free so Riddick wouldn't pick up on it.   
  
Momentarily stunned by his actions, I wrenched my gaze from the almost completely turned Riddick and gaped at Mr. Shoc, slapping his hand away. Mr. Shoc must've thought I was some prissy but goddammit I wasn't and the first words out of my mouth were, "Watch your fuckin' hands, you motherfucker." Stupid asshole didn't even have the self-control to wait until Riddick was completely out of sight before he let his true colors show. Before I could continue to verbally assault "Mr. Can't Contain His Excitement," an arm shot out of nowhere, pinning Mr. Shoc by his neck to the wall.   
  
Damn Riddick! Son of a bitch had amazing peripheral vision. I wanted to kiss him.   
  
"Get your chocolate covered fingers off Jack," he growled while flexing his fingers around that skinny ass neck of Shoc's. "She ain't no mint."   
  
"Yeah, that's right," my voice squeaked from behind Riddick.   
  
His head whipped in my direction and I shrugged my shoulders. Don't look at me.   
  
When his attention was back to Mr. Shoc, I tried to peek over his shoulder to see what was happening.   
  
Riddick reached in his jacket pocket, pulling out the gold cred-card. He shoved it in Mr. Shoc's hyperventilating mouth while his menace filled words strangled the room. "You can keep your money." With that, he released his grip on Shoc and he fell to the floor, clutching at his neck. Swift kick from Riddick rendered him unconscious.   
  
My eyes widened, taking in the scene, but my fascination was cut short by Riddick's hand on my wrist, pulling me out of the apartment. We fucked the elevator and stumbled down the stairs -- well, I stumbled. Riddick had to keep hauling me up. I was grateful for the stability because with all I had gone through in that short period of time, I was amazed I could even walk.   
  
Once outside, I had to stop, catch my breath. What just happened fully hit me and I just had to ask, "Riddick, what are you doin' ?" between inhalations of cotton candy air.   
  
Riddick was exasperated with my question, I could tell. "Didn't you notice something strange about Mr. Shoc, Jack?" he asked clearly irritated but doing a good job of hiding his impatience.   
  
I felt angered or threatened by his harshness and while rubbing my ass, remembering, I couldn't help say, "Um, yeah . . . but hello! . . . What did you think?" I narrowed my eyes at him. "That he wanted a real daughter? He could've gone to a legit agency for that!" I was almost shouting at this point. My anger was always something that fluttered against my ribcage and begged to be let out. Even though there was no reason to be arguing now, I couldn't help feel mad that Riddick assumed too much about this Mr. Shoc . . . and about me. Noticing that Riddick wasn't answering, I voiced my inquiry again. "Did you really think he wanted a daughter?" I breathed wistfully.   
  
"No, but I just didn't expect to care." Blunt and sharp at the same time.   
  
His words reached my ears on a speeding train and crashed all my thoughts. He didn't expect to care? Which meant . . . .  
  
"Riddick, wait," I called out. He was walking in the opposite direction with his back full of confliction. I wanted to reach out . . . touch him . . . smooth away lines I couldn't see but I knew resided on his forehead.   
  
And as he started walking away from me and I instinctively followed him, it started to rain. 


	24. Rain Hurts

::: CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR :::  
  
The rain hit my eyelashes, spilling into my eyes. I saw -- through clouded vision -- Riddick's form getting further and further away and all I wanted was to inhale the raindrops and drown. Each splatter held endless possibilities in its glittering depths but only like water can they slipped through my fingers. Through the sheet of ice prickles Riddick kept on walking and I wondered if he would just leave me here. After all, what use was I now that I couldn't provide him with the creds? But I didn't want to let that happen (I didn't want to dilute myself any longer) . . . . Instead I allowed the rain to stab at my shoulders and trickle coolly down my face -- frosty tears -- as I ran after Riddick.   
  
My shoes were making splashing noises on the ground, creating a tumultuous sound in the vast silence only rain can bring. My mind was clear -- except for the loud thunder of me chasing Riddick . . . something so familiar yet different. Licking my lips, I tasted air, water, madness, peace and . . . Riddick. The atmosphere was saturated with him like a tissue dipped in perfume. He was quickly becoming the thing I missed most . . . . And that was saying a lot given that I was surrounded and kissed by the sky's juice.   
  
But he was relinquishing his hold on me and I was sure that I felt something warmer and slightly heavier than rain roll down my cheeks.   
  
"Why didn't you just take the cred card?" I shouted at his wet back.   
  
Forgetting to cloak myself, I had allowed my doubts to surface like a flood of insecurity. Was I or wasn't I more than just a payday?   
  
He turned to me, black cloth sticking to him and illuminating him against the darkening backdrop. His eyes were silver moons and his lips a firm dot of stars, glistening moist.   
  
"He would've called the police," he said softly and wiped some glowing stardust off his face. "I would be taken to Slam --" he continued, fixing me with his powerful gaze, " -- And you would be on your way back to the Shoc residence," he finished in a low tone.   
  
There was hope. Maybe not on his face as he still looked conflicted and angry but his words swept away the rain and left nothing but clear faith that he did care. At least that was what my subconscious knew. I, however, regarded him with pure suspicion and shot daggers of questions with my eyes. Different versions of myself fought each other, scratching out signs of territory in blood, that only added to the pain residing in me. Bleeding on the inside . . . bleeding on the outside . . . but who could've seen with all the fucking rain washing the evidence away?   
  
"No, but I just didn't expect to care." The words from before came back stronger than ever and inexplicable -- at least in the moment -- anger came plowing into me even through the liquid icicles. He didn't expect to care? So what? Did he want a fucking medal now? I just wasn't ready for the new gashes his statement would open, so I entertained the idea that he felt completely fucked because of his caring. Confidence had never been one of my strong traits and only by siring concepts and motives (chaotic complexity) could I fade into the background where that particular weakness could not be seen by Riddick's acute eyes.   
  
So I just couldn't help myself, staring at Riddick's expectant face (what was it that he wanted?) and anxious stance, that I blurted out, "Don't blame me for trying to convince yourself of the lie and feeling disappointed when faced with the reality." A raindrop pattered unto my nose, destroying my look of defiance. But I just crossed my arms and waited for an answer.   
  
In some shades of truth, I was aware that Riddick didn't blame me for his own selective blindness to the Shoc situation but it was easier for me to be carefully upset than insecure. What was wrong with me? Wasn't I glad that Riddick unconvinced himself of the lie and chose the facts and was willing to give up something important for his survival to help me? And a little voice inside me came to the surface, whispering proudly, 'you are glad and it's despicable.' It's words were harsh but my mind translated them correctly to playful and so my anger began ebbing away (discretely of course) and I took solace in my masterful ability to combine pain and pleasure.   
  
Almost forgetting what I was doing just standing there in the rain, I heard Riddick's response.  
  
"Kid, believe it or not, I do like you."   
  
Riddick's answer seemed funny now -- like a black and white movie with no sound. Just a long forgotten picture in the whole scheme of things. My mind had taken a journey in the desert, methodically avoiding the delectable water and made it back alive -- I no longer needed Riddick to convince me of anything . . . . I had convinced myself.   
  
The rain slowed down and the drops became quite visible now, beautiful orbs plunging from the heavens, purging me of all ill. I just smiled at Riddick and allowed myself to click back into commanding position with my sardonic words. "Oh joy. Now my life is complete."   
  
Riddick, however, seemed slightly hurt by my harmless words (there just to complete the transition) and started walking again, albeit slower.   
  
I worked hard to keep up with Riddick's long strides but puddles, his stunning quickness (even though he had slowed down somewhat) and the heavy cloak of emotion fitted around me was slowing me down.   
  
Feeling comfortable enough to speak again (without having a breakdown), I slightly shouted, slightly moaned, "Riddick slow down! What do I look like, a dog? I can't keep following you around."  
  
I had to abruptly stop because Riddick had just taken the opportunity to discontinue walking all together and I didn't want to be knocked over by bumping into that brick wall he called a back. He turned around to see where I was and stared very intently at me. I was waiting for some tense revelation but all he said very seriously was, "No, you look more like a cat -- sparkling green eyes . . . and . . . pointed teeth." Wow -- he had given that some thought apparently.   
  
I frowned at his comment and tentatively poked a tooth with my tongue. "They're not overly pointy," I argued and mock pouted.   
  
Riddick just laughed like alcohol on a wound and took a step towards me, allowing me to catch up. "Come on . . . . You're wet," he grunted as I came closer.   
  
I wanted to point out that it was raining but I just crossed my arms and said, "So are you," allowing a smirk to fleet across my features.   
  
We walked back to the shuttle in silence just enjoying the distorted view of the world, magnified by fabulous raindrops. Upon getting back to Riddick's ship, I was struck by the fact that I was so cold that my bone marrow had probably frozen. In our sopping wet clothes we trailed a slippery path to the dojo and sat on a bench. It was the room closest to the heating system so we figured it was our best bet to trick pneumonia.   
  
I was feeling too polar to move so I just sat curled into myself on the bench while Riddick braved the chill, stood up and worked his shirt off, putting on a dry one and throwing me one too. Wanting to feel the dry material encasing me but also anticipating the escaped body heat when I unfurled myself, I feebly raised one arm, felt discouraged and put it back down. With that came a totally unexpected mewl from my throat -- hmmm, catty -- and Riddick proceeded to help me out of my sticky clothes.   
  
I closely watched him as he pulled my shirt up, forgetting the glacial atmosphere. He kept his eyes trained on mine and I didn't know if it was my imagination or what but he seemed downright sheepish and skittish about allowing myself to be undressed by him, which was weird since he had seen me completely naked before. This seemed different though . . . Like he wasn't embarrassed about my nudity but concerned about my comfort level with him so close to me. But truly I didn't mind; I just breathed in his scent mixed in with the fresh dew of rain and took great enjoyment in studying his face. He lowered the oversized shirt down my body and stopped when the hem reached my knees. I unbuckled my jeans and sat back down, pulling them down and away from my body. Riddick just kinda stood there, watching me and holding a towel.   
  
Not knowing if this was one of those awkward moments portrayed in "real life," I just stared at this oh-so-interesting puddle of water at Riddick's feet. He must have confused it for sadness because he said, "I'm sorry."   
  
I sharply looked up at him. My gray matter completely iced I wasn't sure what he had meant.   
  
"For trying to sell you," he added curtly . . . kind of sharply. Yummy.   
  
"Very sorry?" I asked in an over pronounced sweet voice, batting my eyelashes.   
  
Riddick looked at me with a smirk a mile long. "No, just regular sorry."  
  
Ah, yes there he was.   
  
I flicked his arm, feigning indignation. "Yeah . . . yeah, whatever you say, killer," I teased but my mouth felt dry as the word "sorry" kept running back and forth in my mind, leaving skid marks.   
  
Looking down at his pants I pointed out, "You might wanna take those drippin' wet pants off before trying to act tough."   
  
And with a huge, simpering grin thrown at Riddick over my shoulder, I left the room in search for some quiet to go along with my topsy-turvy thoughts. 


	25. Night And Day

::: CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE :::  
  
Last night's sleep had been a fitful one and full of yearning for the morning, thinking somehow that it wouldn't be appreciated if I just stumbled in on Riddick during the middle of the night. I was probably right, seldom I was wrong. However, when the first teasing rays of sunlight crept up my leg, shining gold on pale white, I almost recoiled and went to clasp the screen down on the tiny window.   
  
Sighing with something close to indulgence, I splashed cold, dripping water on my face, watching it make its cleansing course down my cheeks. I quickly brushed my teeth, not daring to smile at the mirror, and brushed out my hair also, something that I felt hadn't been done in a long time. I didn't take the time to inspect myself more thoroughly for the morbid fear that I wouldn't like what was staring back. Never having appreciated a mirror's verity, I just opted to conceal myself.   
  
Slight ghost, slight memory, slight girl I was walking around the increasingly warm ship, making my way to Riddick's room. Morning seemed foreign to me...had I ever woken up this early before? The intensity of it's light, the truth of the sun, the slow time of morning's were amazing...amazingly creepy.   
  
I crawled into Riddick's bed, nestling in the cool sheets, before planting myself on top of his covered form. Laying my chin on his chest, I waited until he opened his eyes.   
  
As he finally acknowledged my non-morning presence -- he had know I was there way before -- I took the liberty of blatantly staring into silver orbs, that told no story that morning. In all it's honesty, daybreak still had nothing on Richard B. Riddick. Extraordinary concealment...I bet he had no problem with mirrors. Staring at mirrors with mirror eyes couldn't be that bad, anyway -- just one reflection to another...until it all exploded somewhere in the middle.   
  
Swallowing the silver down my dry throat, it fueled me with just enough hidden energy to make my words real. "Got a question for you," I stated quickly.  
  
"Shoot," the languid creature said.   
  
"Remember when you left me with Imam at the hotel for a few months..." I raised midnight gilded eyebrows at him. "...where did you go?"  
  
Riddick sighed heavily, shuffling the dawn's glitter interlaced through my hair, and moved as if to get out from under me.   
  
"Oh, no you don't," I said, placing a well traveled (night vacations) hand on his chest. "I wanna know."  
  
We stood like that for long seconds. Sunrise and sunset had passed us in those few moments. We were back to not knowing if it was light or dark though, so I had to use my own skills to decipher candor from deception. I was pretty well-honed in that area, so no worries.   
  
When Riddick finally spoke, it startled me. Stars and rays...both piercing in their own right. "I tried to find a way to find some extra money," he said quietly.   
  
"Is that when you came up with the Zemi idea?" I asked as if I had just been a passerby in the whole situation. There was no emotion in my voice -- regulatory detachment was something that Riddick would have to get used to.   
  
Riddick's jaw tightened for less than a second but I, like a good little girl, noted it. His arms came to rest on the small of my back, as if that was enough misdirection for me. Huh. Nope.   
  
"No, that's when I tried to find an alternative," he finally answered, with maybe just a pinch of more emotion than I had held in my voice.   
  
Something didn't click. Because when I looked into Riddick's eyes they were somber like the night, not mischievously glinting like the day. He was lying and trying too hard to shed some light; instead he cloaked me in raven. Why was he going to such lengths to not hurt me? So what?...He came up with the idea to sell me. I didn't care, but I was curious. I never expected him to lie -- not when I needed the brutal, flashing truth. Like biting pebbles in the bottom of the ocean...like slippery soap clinging to skin...like the sudden illumination of a pitch black room. I needed it.   
  
I gave him a chance out. "Are you sure?" my voice came distance, distracted.   
  
He held me close -- too far for genuine sable between our bodies -- and kneaded my back for a comforting while. "I didn't want to sell you so I was trying to find a way out for you," he said, almost perfectly, had it not been for a tiny hesitation.   
  
"Said the serial killer," I joked, but inside I was wounded.   
  
This was how it had all started -- with my parents trying to guard me by taking away the things that would make me feel pain...that was a betrayal of feelings though, because I needed my suffering to make me strong.  
  
Was Riddick attempting to make me weak? Didn't he know that I could screen myself, that I didn't need him to do that for me?   
  
I had never felt such a sharp contrast between incandescence and solid dusk as I did at that moment, laying on Riddick encased in an aura of arctic white coming in through the window. 


	26. Agony Measured In A Glass

The next few days were exact duplicates. Copies of old photographs that couldn't be ripped down the middle. Not only that but most pictures -- from my extensive research -- could show a thousand different words, but they rarely sounded different when escaping lying lips.   
  
My whole body was electrified, chain-links leading to my navel being tugged every so often, jolting me. I was standing on digging, sharp thorns, with the tantalizing flowers just out of reach. Why wouldn't Riddick just be himself? Huh, flowers and Riddick in the same thought -- it just shook up my tired brain to snicker loudly at my desperation.   
  
It's no good when your own mind starts laughing at you.   
  
I wanted to hiss at him. Punch him. Shock him. Hurt him. How did he dare to try to protect me in this unwarranted manner, like I was some sort of delicate piece of glass? I'd shattered long before; there was no need to write fragile on my flesh, actually it would've been prudent for Riddick to watch where he was stepping, so he didn't crunch on my broken pieces and hurt himself.   
  
Allow me a moment to lose myself?  
  
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!   
  
Words like mortician and eternal damnation made their way into my consciousness. Something I'd read? Was this a disease I had picked up in my mother's womb? This ... this curse ... that prohibited further steps in the right direction to take place. Cruel, self-made circumstance? Or the waste from the universe's menstrual cycle? Fuck.  
  
I was over thinking this. But I really wasn't. Its simplicity actually scared me. No longer were there complicated series of processes involved that led to hidden plots; no, all that existed was the mundane, so-fucking-human act of subterfuge. Riddick was asininely -- dare I say stupidly? -- trying his hand at the fundamental concept of truth hurts. Except he was molding it to fit his current perceptions of me, which ironically told him that hurt in no shape, form, or manner would be good for me, so why not just lie?   
  
Yeah, good one Riddick ... if it wasn't for the fact that I already knew you came up with the idea to sell me and never even considered an alternative -- and why would've you even tried to? You were hard, instinctual, disciplined ... you came up with a foolproof idea, you stuck with it. And here came the problem: You didn't stick to it, did you? At the last minute you backed up, pulled out. You probably still don't know why you really did it -- you felt all confused, betraying your trusted intuition. Trying to change that, you blamed it on me, in the process convincing yourself that you had in fact searched for a plan B, before having to regrettably give up and stick to selling me. That suited you, did it not? No one was further hurt in the whole slavery taboo.   
  
Well, think again. I was fucking hurt. You couldn't just leave it be? You just had to boil it down to an elementary equation of ' I tried my hardest to protect you and I failed so don't feel bad because in the end I saved you, nonetheless.' Even I had known the childish stigmata that phrase held in its hypocritical clutches -- I had wanted to use it after my attempt to poison you ... but I didn't, because it sounded too self-important. I was right. I was never wrong.   
  
But I've digressed. And started talking to the imaginary Riddick in my head, which wasn't much appreciated by aforementioned ghost personality. Cannot batter someone that isn't real though, right? Saying yes would be wrong. It could be done; I wasn't ever so-called genuine, yet I was bruised.   
  
My, my. I've done it again. Back on track now. Promise ... bleed me dry.  
  
Repeats. Reproductions. That was now my life. The curtain came up everyday to reveal that same boring as hell play, and it was starting to irritate. I had opened up my soul to Riddick and instead of him trying to accept it, he tried to heal it.   
  
It was fake and reminded me of days from the past. Days I had intentionally forgotten and ran away from. For the last three days I've tried unsuccessfully to get some kind of bestial truth from Riddick, my scarred other half. He was always the pragmatic one, never mincing words. But now he did nothing but soften the blow. Fucking annoying. I wanted to pull out every strand of hair from my exploding head -- go back to the beginning.   
  
So I experimented with every twisted form of the same question.   
  
When I asked him if he felt I was a liability, he just answered with a quick "don't worry about it." Asshole. How could I not stress over it, when I was right in the middle of the snake pit?   
  
When I questioned if there was something he needed to tell me, he told me to "just relax." That was when I went to my room and slammed the door.   
  
Riddick was becoming exactly what I didn't want ... a prince in a cheap stimulation of shining armor. What happened to my didn't-know-who-he-was-fucking-with sadist? Maybe not a full blown sadist -- but still he took a sick amount of pleasure in corrupting other people. And that was good enough for me. Yet now he was a fucking hallmark card. The epitome of mankind and all of its vices. Just a carbonated copy of what he thought I wanted from him. Like I couldn't have manipulated him if I had wanted something different? The truth was that I didn't want something different. I wanted him -- in all his shunned-by-God wolfish glory. Was that so wrong?   
  
Alone in my dark room, I thought about my parents and how they had acted a few days before I had ran away. They, too, had said things that were the equivalent of "don't worry." Don't worry we'll get money for college ... don't worry we'll try to give you your privacy ... don't worry we'll try to make everything fucking perfect! How naive of them. To think that what I wanted was security in a world I never harmonized with. Didn't they know that every single right they perpetuated was just another chance for the universe to disappoint me? Idiots.   
  
Didn't they understand that the uncertainty and misery was what fueled me? I had to leave them then, to embrace my horridly cursed life. Why try to escape it? It would sting twice as much, when it caught up to me. Didn't they understand I thrived in the negativity and loneliness, like some kind of demented, deep sea, poisonous fish?  
  
Now Riddick was doing the same thing ... that passive, I-know-better-than-you shtick. God, how old was that routine? Wasn't the basis of whole human existence based on that one concept? Me -- God, you -- human. You do what I say, because I'm all omnipresent and shit. Double or nothing. Yeah, I was definitely right.   
  
Riddick must've borrowed God's attitude for a while because he was acting like my protector and making me feel all relaxed, and I despised it. I couldn't even put it into words how much the thought created fluffy loathe to swim my veins and expand my horizons. What I really needed was focused definition. Not some many faceted choice. Choice had always hatched evil, deranged plans, that never panned out. So fuck human will. What was the use of it, if all choices get affected by even the tiniest stimuli -- like which direction the wind blows? And whose in charge of nature? Exactly.  
  
The more relaxed I became with Riddick's "kind" coercion (oxymoron if I had ever seen one), the faster the heavy veil was put down on reality, creating tense doubts. Because if I couldn't see beyond the point Riddick wanted me to, then how could I know what I was missing? Godsend luck. Now I know that was oxymoronic.   
  
Then the fear came. The fear came like a glittering ice goddess in the dark room. The walls were iced over with the strong scent of dread. Dread was the most powerful and action eliciting emotion that ever existed. Even Lucifer himself would cower in cold horror in front of its frosty presence. Dread did not need reason, it paid no mind to choice, and it never, never responded to happiness. Dread was everything -- a combination of fear, anticipation, trepidation, and restlessness. It was worse than Death, for you had to turn to the indifferent face of death in order to escape Dread. Death was a mere escape compared to the wicked game of Dread.   
  
The fear was that if I became too happy, than I would lose a part of myself ... a strong part, that always knew how to end ... destroy ... mold things. I didn't desire satisfaction; that would mean "game over." Nothing else to strive for ... to reach. Riddick was trying to take away my pain, but all he did was oppress my true feelings toward the world, and that always led to drastic measures. Maybe I was just a cynic. Fuck, I wasn't cynical ... I was just perverse. Was it wrong for me to smirk at that and enjoy its full spectrum of meanings?  
  
Why was he trying to convince me that life is supposed to be happy, when he knew it himself that life was much more powerful in the form of misery drops? If I had thought the world was a beautiful place, I could guarantee that I wouldn't have learned much; all the attempts on my life by the cosmos' essence would've succeeded. Couldn't he see that I didn't want life's definition of "good"? That I just craved to remain like I was and be understood as the selfish, malicious orphan of anti-creation?   
  
If he took that away, I would be created, completed, and dead all in one moment.   
  
I rocked back and forth on the empty bed, in the absolute darkness of my suffocating room. The only sounds were the slight squeaking of the mattress and the calm breathing of my body, as my mind was full of chaos, trying to make sense of the checkered board, that was the anatomy of existence. My world was withering.   
  
Riddick was trying to shield me, when all I needed was the truth. Basic. I knew what the partial truth was and in all reality, it wasn't that bad. However, it wasn't the yellow daffodils Riddick was trying to force down my throat either. The truth did call for some darkness and affliction, but than again if it didn't, would it be true? I required bitter ... harsh ... real life, not make-believe. I had run away to escape dying the last time it had happened, but now it seemed too hard and useless. Where would I go? Would I have to start making fresh new associations? How vapid.   
  
I decided that since Riddick had been trying to assure me of the greatness and worthiness of life (the opposite of what I told him a while ago) that I would take his advice and kill myself in order to escape this fake sugariness. Heh. I didn't think that was what he was going for. But I hadn't been kidding around when I explained to him life was shit and now that he was attempting to lessen its grimness I had to get the fuck out. Too tired to start anew, I figured Death would finally get its wish -- me giving up. Ciao life. And a fuck you too.  
  
When I thought Riddick would make my life as complicated as possible, I would've never have died for it, but now ... I was too proud to give my being to a phony materiality ... to a prison. A system of bland rules of cause and effect.  
  
The bony paleness of goddess Dread's frigid finger poked me in the chest and lifted my chin to her wispy, silvery form. I submerged myself in her black eyes, full of nothing, not even reflection....  
  
She whispered meaningless nothings in my ear, like I was doing this for her or something. I heard snippets of words like "release" ... "can't go back" ... and "easier" coil around my body, like strips of ice and layers of skin. This was the new me -- fearless of the nothingness, that lays beyond this plane of awareness.   
  
I tiptoed out of my room, with Ice's arms around my shoulders, or was that my throat? And made my way to the kitchen. Filling a simple glass with water, that I would never again need to sustain me, I set it down in the center of the table. Then I made a trip to the maintenance room.   
  
I sat down at the table, arms stretched atop its comparably warm surface, one fist tightly clenched. I alternated dropping a pill in the water and swallowing one dry. Swallow. Plunk. Swallow. Plunk.  
  
Killing yourself sure was depressing and lonely business, I mused. It was so quiet and surprisingly it was like that on all fronts -- even my mind. I didn't fuck with a suicide note. What would I have written? I was scared of mirrors?  
  
So hushed was the whole process that I didn't even notice doing it. I would die alone but be found by Riddick ... that thought was comforting. Would he try to wake me up and notice that I was too cold to just be sleeping? Or maybe not, since I was always abnormally glacial. Swallow. Plunk.  
  
It was late, I presumed. Was he sleeping in warm blankets? My stomach was thumping some sort of message now. Thump. Plunk. Swallow.   
  
My arm snaked around my middle, trying to silence the agitation. I think I needed to vomit. Held down that urge. It was going to be so good when Riddick found me here in the morning, I thought unabashed. All perfect just like his contrived words of reassurance. Double edged too.  
  
I watched the last pill dissolve in the water and then I pushed the pill, resting on my tongue, to the back of my throat to send spiraling down. And then I picked up the glass, around its slippery, wet shell, and tipped it up in cheers to no one in particular. A sardonic gesture. A closing jest.   
  
And with a final expletive, I gulped down the tainted water.... 


	27. Not The Beginning, Not The End

:::CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN:::  
  
There was the sounds of quiet, encompassing me, regulating me into a state of restless bliss. The flexible softness underneath my body cradled me and the support was welcomed readily. There was also the heaviness of a warm entity atop my legs and torso, surrounding me with memories of being locked in imaginary small spaces. I was once again tiny, made to feel insignificant. The air was pure -- too pure.   
  
Then I opened my eyes.  
  
The white brightness of it all was what struck me first. White walls. White sunlight. White sight. Through a maelstrom of lily and tired pity, I looked up at the white ceiling.   
  
God. I hated hospitals.   
  
I immediately let my eyes droop shut and with a tender kiss invited the smooth darkness. Clutching at the starched sheets, memorizing their brittleness, I attempted to open my eyes again. Painful. Painful. Painful. That was all that I could think.  
  
And than the scent of forced clean and strongly impotent air swept through my nose, tingling my sinuses. I wanted to sneeze. But that would've hurt my burned throat even more, so I quickly inhaled the retched oxygen some more, until the urge was squelched.   
  
Swallowing was also a trial. Staring weakly at the spotted and old ceiling, I tasted the polluted (with antiseptic) air, as it pressed into my tongue, slid down my esophagus like acid, hitting all the raw bumps. I no longer needed to sneeze; vomiting would be more like it. However, all that was there to discharge was the slippery, yellow breaking down agents of my stomach, which would do no good for my abused throat.   
  
Sight. Touch. Smell. Taste. I always forgot the fifth. Sound. My five senses were all working...unfortunately. However, sound was just as unpleasant as the other ones. The muffled talking outside, in the hallways, much too powerful for the dead sensation that existed in the room, where only whispering would do. The almost silent swishing of a heavy door closing and the hurried steps of nurses and clicking clipboards. The PA system crackling some obscure doctor's name, while the food tray (that a week ago was probably used as a vehicle for cleaning supplies) went door to door. It was all so mundane yet...so there.  
  
Gathering saliva in my mouth, I coerced it down my throat to soothe my smoldering pharynx. It did not help. All it did was seemingly open a (probably hallucinatory) wound, that swelled to the size of an infected cherry. Now the passage way was further blocked. Maybe I could suffocate this way.   
  
I finally managed to keep my eyes open for more than five minutes. I was rounding ten. The ceiling wasn't much to look at, but I had counted fifty water stains. Probably sanitized water stains. I still didn't dare move, because I could feel it in my bones, that were shivering. My whole body, in fact, felt decrepit. My skin was insubstantial and it let in all the chill; my knees threatened to break if I attempted to stand, and so on. I was feeble, laying there on the small bed, trying not to float away.   
  
Tremors warred in my veins, giving me the probable appearance of someone on the verge of collapse, even if I was not standing. Not to mention how my head felt. Fizzled from every hair root to the center of my throbbing brain was an explosion. My gray matter was on the fringe, waiting to ooze out of every hole in my face.   
  
I was so caught up with the physical agony, I could barely think of the emotional. But, nonetheless, it was there, expecting to be acknowledged. I, however, was a coward in its face and refused to give it weight.   
  
How can I think of it now, when I am so weak from trying to -  
  
I strove to kill myself and I (predictably) failed. Was there anything I was capable of achieving? Aussitot dit, Aussitot fait. I was capable of being a mistake. Simple. I shouldn't ask myself questions, I could actually answer.   
  
The white sunlight was alarmingly quick at turning into a macabre and sinful exposition of dark pinks and violets. Zemi. Goddamn planet was freakish even in the evening. I was just hopeful that the shadows, that were now milling around the creme ceiling, wouldn't suddenly turn into an array of rainbow colors. Thankfully, they remained dark and a shade of sinister.   
  
How long had I just been laying there? No nurse even came to check on me. Strange.   
  
I finally noticed my loosely bandaged upper forearm and felt the discomfort of a catheter in my vein, which shouldn't be felt, dripping needed glucose into my frailness. I flexed my fingers and was too disoriented and disgusted to pull out the contraception. Sighing loudly, I closed my eyes and wished for an infinite solution to a finite problem. Ow. Paradoxes like that hurt.  
  
I tried to remember things I've seen or read or experienced but everything fell short. Everything I ever underwent was through others perspective. Being worried about how others processed information could do that to you. It was unhealthy but than again, I never thought I would make it so far. Actually I'm lying; I believed that having multi view vision would assist me in overcoming the challenges fate placed in my path, but I was mistaken. Fate won. It had known it. It had made it so.  
  
'When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy.'  
  
That was basically my life. I wanted to be happy but I couldn't be good, so I took the alternate path, hoping for happiness in evil misery. Is that so hard to swallow? Well, I had found it, hadn't Riddick chosen to destroy it, which (by my logic) should sate me. But it hadn't.   
  
I needed to stop pondering snippets from my dissociative consciousness; they made no sense and just popped in, trying to bring my attention to something I couldn't fully comprehend under the given conditions. I tried to summarize my life, but all that commenced was a self-pity fest. I tried to discover one word to define the expanse of my existence but all that I came up with: grief.   
  
Except that little while with Riddick when -  
  
But that was over. That Riddick had changed. I was back to the beginning. And beginnings were always full of naïveté and sorrow. Bittersweet. That is if you found innocence sweet; if not, just bitter.   
  
What had I learned? Or better yet why was I thinking in terms of finality? I wasn't dead. Than why did it feel like it was over?   
  
The beginning sure felt a lot like the end. Something to muse about later, if I wasn't sure I would forget. I itched to write this down somewhere, but it would've translated into a list of some sort, and I had given those up. Another vestige of me that I couldn't conjure up due to superficial pride. I was honest -- to myself.   
  
'Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe, After night I do crowd, And with night will go; I turn my back to the east, From whence comforts have increas'd; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain.'  
  
I couldn't get it out of my diseased system. I hated the light because it meant I had wasted the night. Lost. I felt....I needed to get up. Now.   
  
With horrid effort and clinched eyes, I tried to prop myself up. Hot heat spread up and down my arms as I supported my weight on them and by the time I had slid my lower body up a few inches, I had a collection of moist sweat on my forehead. Exhaling loudly, I relaxed my arms and rested the back of my head on the cold, steel bars of the headboard. I sagged a few inches when my shoulders slumped down, but I just ignored it (weary of having to go through the exercise again) and gripped the non familiar blanket at the sides of my hips.   
  
Finally, satisfied with my position, I unscrewed my eyes and looked in front of me. A white wall. I didn't need psychic powers to foresee that.   
  
One hand went to my hair, not surprised to find it disheveled and knotty. While I absentmindedly stroked the curls, my eyesight wandered over the breadth of the room I occupied. My worn-down eyes flicked from floor to ceiling to finally land on the far right corner, that was collecting the majority of shadows. I instinctively zoomed over to the far left corner and my stomach muscles clenched spasmodically from fright.   
  
Fight or flight wasn't working properly, though, so all I managed was a sharp, quick intake of breath and the almost comical freeze of my hand, encircled in wavy strands. I caught myself and lowered aforementioned hand down, but not without a painful tug when it became coiled in some locks. In my desperation to not look foolish, I succeeded in ripping out some hair and holding it, in my palm, I got my hand down.   
  
There, in the corner, was Riddick. Sitting with the shadows (possibly conversing with them), he looked like death. He accomplished looking lethal and at ease at the same time. Cerebral shiver.   
  
His large form hid most of the chair he was sitting in, which surprisingly was black steel not white. Feet a good distance from one another, he had his knees laying open, not a vulnerable stance, though. His elbows were planted on the armrests and his fingertips were brushing the top of his knees, his arms only slightly stretching. The tranquil rhythm of his stomach rising and falling went well with his poise. As I moved further up his body with my inquisitive eyes, I took a shaky glance at his lips, which were closed but still full. Pouting would not be correct, however, not with Riddick's complete abandon of everything that was not pure.   
  
When I finally reached his open eyes, I found myself at a lack of putrid oxygen and softly gasping. Okay. That was an exaggeration; I was not gasping. Did you actually visual my chest heaving and my lips parted? No. That would never be me. I wasn't that girl. You should know this by now.  
  
I, however, swallowed and felt my lips go paper thin, trying to keep from saying anything rash. Blessedly, I never got the chance to articulate any stupidity.   
  
"I had to have your stomach pumped," Riddick's broody voice reached me, skimming across my abdomen, which twitched in response.  
  
I let my gaze depart from his intense stare and took in the ugly, white curtains, fluttering from the breeze that was coming from the open window. The sky had blackened, though some wisps of mauve still lingered. Decidedly prettier than before. Maybe only because the situation had changed.   
  
My lips formed the word, but I hadn't intended the doughy, "Oh," to escape. It did and shattered any remnants of keeping the upcoming conversation rational. Maybe not a bad thing.   
  
Unable to bear the practically laughable silence any longer, I said, "I remember. I was there," too bitterly than I had wanted. Defeat in another configuration.  
  
I finally faced Riddick again and was taken even more aback by his self-composure but was put to ease by his deeply creased forehead, that gave him the countenance of someone debating a grave situation.   
  
"Why would I have to have your stomach pumped, Jack?" he asked, with a tragic and dangerous form of ridicule. He knew the answer. He knew I knew it too. But he just had to ask. Torment the only way Riddick knew how. A parody of life.  
  
Head swimming. What to say? What to say? His voice sounded so...so...like it had aged thousands of years...and was an open wound, being drowned in alcohol. It was not what I expected, so debilitating. That's what it was. Not a position you want to see Riddick in, definitely. Not when you, yourself, were breaking down.   
  
All these thoughts came together at the same time until there was nothing left to do, except scream or -  
  
I rolled unto my side, facing away from Riddick, and started to cry, because I thought I had killed him. Pretty idiotic, huh? But it was that asphyxiating sort of guilty responsibility that people feel when they do something truly vicious and have it thrown back in their faces. Blamed. But with reason. Not a fan of reason. But I was of justification and motive, so I was bound. I was crying.  
  
I vaguely thought not to soil the pillow with my tears, but ultimately abandoned that idea with an incoming wave of sadness and contempt for myself. Now my throat was parched and flaming from the exertion and that just encouraged me to shed more teardrops. They dripped down my face and curved at my chin, falling on the pillow, staining it with dark splotches against its white cotton. No hiccuping was involved but my chin did tremble, exhibiting my emotional weakness. Sensitive for the Princess of Darkness, wasn't I?  
  
A hand on the small of my back, however, negated the salty evidence of my susceptible nature. I bolted straight up and threw a dirty look at Riddick, meekly attempting to find culpability elsewhere. How had he moved so fast? Why was he here? What could I say to wound him?  
  
Wiping wildly at my cheeks, I hoarsely asked, "How did you find me?" Hah. Beat that. That's what you get for saving me and ruining my suicide.   
  
He let his arm go back down to his side and stood there, towering over me, making me visibly knot up and look for comfort in the folds of the bed. Then he shrugged his shoulders, seemingly disappointed with my useless question.   
  
"It got really cold. I went to turn on the heat," he truthfully answered.   
  
Cold? Well, yeah. Wherever I went the cold followed me like the plague. Should've thought of that.   
  
My eyes must've taken on a dreamy appearance because Riddick shot through the stillness with, "Jack, what happened?"   
  
Heh. What didn't happen?  
  
Staring at him impassively, tears threatening to overspill down my cheeks, I said, "I wanted to..." My face crumbled and I felt my chin twitch. Gulping down the inclination to depression, I chose to remain silent.   
  
"What?" the desperate concern was evident in his tone. Or was that just curiosity? Interest was always borderline.  
  
"I wanted to feel...like life was crazy again." Oh yeah, nicely put.  
  
I couldn't formulate the right words and Riddick's almost fighter stance was draining me. Looking at him through wet eyes was blurry and strangely the hardest thing I could remember doing. "I wanted to be in control of the pain...of loss," I informed him, with a voice heavy in anguish.  
  
I chanced a look directly in his silver eyes and was seized by the absolute confusion there. It did not make me feel better to know that Riddick thought I was deranged. Prone to ataxic behavior, my fingers jerked a little and plucked at the scratchy sheet. It was not a slight movement and Riddick noticed it. I didn't care.  
  
"You were being so protective of me...I couldn't handle it," I said, bringing his attention back to me.   
  
That statement oversimplified it, though. It was so much more than just that. It was the power of creating disorder...it was the escape of having to go back to a life reminiscent of my old one...it was the destruction of easy solutions to problems. Though that was a hypocritical want, especially since I had tried killing myself. Life's irony sure was devilish.   
  
Riddick looked concerned, under the coat of haze and tears my eyes presented me with. "Jack, I was just trying to make you feel better." His voice held the unmistakable decibel of accusation. That tiny grain of primal instinct to wash his hands of me made me smile for a millisecond.   
  
I wanted to hug him to me, but he looked charged up on chaotic questions, and it was astounding that he didn't flicker with all that bottled energy. Instead I told him, "But you don't have to do that. To care for me is to hurt with me." Did that translate to what I hoped it would? I self-doubted myself more often than any thief or liar...combined.  
  
"I don't understand," he firmly said, never wavering from his point of view.  
  
He remained standing and I remained bonelessly propped up against the headboard. "I like the guessing...the rawness...I don't want to listen to lies to make me whole...having understanding of the bad, helps me go on." Talking in human speech patterns was never my thing, but that statement was pushing it. Did I get through to him?   
  
He looked like he could get that. I knew than he could. I pleaded with my eyes that I was right.  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean," he said. "Sometimes the conflict whether to leave everyone on T2 was sweeter than actually doing it," he continued with a sick smirk and an obscene emphasis on 'sweeter.'   
  
Underlying meanings and connections were made and all I could concentrate on was the memory of the almost gleeful expression he got referring to the 'sweet spot,' when we were back on that planet. This was the same thing, I quickly assessed. Glad to be of service, Riddick.   
  
I sniffled and tugged on his hand to invite him on the bed, but he stubbornly refused to budge, and I experienced a lapse of stability and felt an overwhelming amount of deprivation at his rejection. As debased as it sounds, I actually savored that sentiment (maybe to get myself off on later).   
  
"I'm sorry for trying to kill myself...I should've just told you this from the beginning." What? That you're insane, Jack? I belittled myself. That would've went over well.   
  
"Yeah, Jack, actually you should've." Riddick crossed his arms over his chest and subconsciously flexed his forearms. "Would've saved you a lot of trouble."   
  
Oooooh, he was pulling out the big guns. Guilt-trip with a side of future death threat. Nice. That did the trick, though.   
  
"I know you only did that whole protection thing because you care," I tried to say irreproachably and get back into the game.   
  
This seemed to soften him up just a tad as his arms relaxed, and it no longer looked as if his muscles might burst. That was it though; otherwise he was as stoic as ever. The man sure was militant.   
  
He made his move, when my defensives were slightly down. "You know what should scare you, Jack?"  
  
"Hmmm?" I said, waiting for some manlike revelation. What he actually said...well, scared me to put it simply.  
  
"That when I hold you, you feel exactly like death," he disclosed, making it sound consequential with his deep voice and down tilted eyes. "And I love that..." he growled with an almost ocular shudder of enjoyment.  
  
I audibly (to my ears) gulped and commanded myself to watch the play of emotions on Riddick's face, however hard that may be. Choosing to disconcert right back, I said, "Interesting. Because you feel exactly like pain and that is all that makes me tick." True enough.   
  
I luxuriated in this...game we were playing. It felt up to par with the events that had led to this moment. This brutally real moment.   
  
There was a sphere of silence that the room consisted of before Riddick spoke again. It was his move, after all. Would he try to take the queen?  
  
"Then you'll love this," he said, almost perversely.   
  
My ears perked up, but I didn't set my expectations too high. Time and practice had taught me that much.   
  
"We've got no cash...there's a new merc after me and now probably you...I've got fuckin' blue balls...I have no idea what to get you for your birthday..."   
  
I smiled in spite of myself.  
  
"...And I just saw Imam on TV, announcing your kidnap and putting up a nice sum to get you back."   
  
He rubbed his scalp in a mock contemplation gesture. "I don't know if I should just bring you in or not," he bantered. "And collect," he smirked. He gave me a look that challenged me to object.  
  
Now with this (finally) candid admission, I wanted to kiss him. And a number of other misbehaving things.   
  
Instead I replied with, "Sounds miserably wonderful." I didn't even know how he could've kept that in for so long and not lose it like I had. Or just murdered me.   
  
And than the selection of worries and obstacles finally hit me, and I swore I was on cloud nine. Except my cloud nine looked abnormally bleak and stormy. Wasn't expecting anything less than perfect; I wasn't let down.  
  
Riddick finally decided to open up the floodgates and they sure were flowing over me like sticky-can't-get-you-out-of-my-hair honey and infecting everything around me. It was engulfing me whole, and I reveled in its severe taste. This was not some fairy tale, and I appreciated that with every fiber of my black, little soul.  
  
Riddick finally sat down on the foot of the bed, staring across at me. I picked up his hand and brought it to my lips. As a thankful token, I kissed the inside of his palm, before proceeding to run little circles with my tongue, tasting his skin. My eyes remained on him, as I spiraled around the deep set lines and followed his life line, contaminating it with my essence. Just a little jest. Done with his palm, I traced each finger with my tongue, pecking the tips with the utmost seriousness, accompanying the wet sound. Riddick was actually purring by the time I was done.  
  
"Mmm, Jack...not in the hospital...we'd get into trouble," he said, as I went to pick up his other hand.   
  
I lewdly smirked at him. "Don't say things like that...I just wanna do it more, you know?"   
  
And him knowing was also a big excitement. Alertness in exposure. Something undeniably suggestive about it.   
  
Suddenly, however, I frowned. I just thought of something. It hadn't occurred to me before, but now, with his flavor on my lips, it became painfully clear to me.   
  
"Riddick, are you sure you want my life of misery?" I asked his content face.   
  
He sighed. "I already have one, so sharing mine with yours is going to be interesting...that is if you can handle it," he smirked. Something about that smile made me think that maybe he wasn't joking when he asked if I thought I could handle his life. But I had to remain unflappable to prove myself.   
  
"I've been practicing all my life," I said, my voice only slightly twanged by tiredness and an eternity of rehearsing that line in my head.   
  
With that said, I resolved to slyly bring the conversation back to irregular tones. Something we could both take pleasure in.  
  
"I wanna be your gum," I told Riddick.  
  
"What?" he asked, getting used to my atypical speech.   
  
"Ya know, like bubble gum -- how it starts hurting your jaw, face, temples after a while but you just can't throw it out because for some inexplicable reason you like it?" There -- now that was something Riddick could ponder. "Actually find pleasure in the pain...?" I tried again, coercing Riddick to answer.   
  
All he said was, "How well you know me, Jack."   
  
And that was enough. He knew the pleasure came from pushing to see how far you can survive with the pain. The knowledge always came with a price, and he understood that. And I did too.   
  
Everything was at it seemed, and it was freeing. There was only a fleeting moment when we had tried to convince ourselves otherwise and that uncertainty had led us here. So we couldn't hold Black Fate against us or try to forget.   
  
It was a part of me, a subtle yet meaningful part. I didn't have to change my fascination, undecidedly obsession, with agony as delectation and Riddick at last found someone suitable enough to accept his suffering into her veins and lave it with a much stronger solution -- sorrow.   
  
This wasn't the end nor was it the beginning; it was just a reflection in Time.   
  
I was battling hell, and it was wonderful...I was earning myself heaven.   
  
FIN.  
  
***  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
Aussitot dit, Aussitot fait is French and it translates to: No sooner said than done.  
  
'When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy' is a quote from Oscar Wilde. Some of his works include "An Ideal Husband" and "Picture of Dorian Gray."  
  
'Like a fiend in a cloud, With howling woe, After night I do crowd, And with night will go; I turn my back to the east, From whence comforts have increas'd; For light doth seize my brain With frantic pain' is from William Blake's poem "Mad Song."   
  
I intend no copyright infringements with any of the quotations I used.   
  
I'd like to thank all of my reviewers and say that it's been a pleasure writing this story, and I hope everyone got as much enjoyment out of it as I did penning it. Or maybe even something more that you can take to your everyday life.   
  
I'd also like to mention that many might find this ending a bit abrupt or ominous, but I was going for something realistic -- not too sugary nor too bitter, since the tone of this story has always been obscure. If this feels like it needs a sequel or another chapter, good, because that's real life. Sometimes more time is needed for closure. Sometimes the afterlife is not even enough. And you can't possibly think that life for Riddick and Jack will get easier? No neatly tied bows for this girl.   
  
*** 


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